Straachan: Last Knight Before Winter
by Silirt
Summary: A lone maester guides a group of vulnerable refugees through Westeros, assisted only by an unknown hedge knight whom he does not trust. Other men seek a mythical artifact whose supposed powers threaten the stability of Westeros and the Known World. They encounter very real and very dangerous characters, misfortune, loss, and love. They work together. They have no choice.
1. Outset

A/N- This story can't be influenced by reviews. Don't use the chapter selection dropdown unless you're caught up or like spoilers. I'm not including any other author's notes, they break the immersion. Apart from those minor notes, get ready to enjoy the most shipping free story you will ever read.

ASTARON

JAEHAERYS: KING IN THE SIGHT OF GODS AND MEN

HAIL

HAIL

HAIL

Those were the words as the new maester read them, boldly proclaiming the glories of a dead king in stone engraving, proclaiming to the end of time, lost in a bog or not.

"Typical" A king, acting like a bloody cunt as if anyone cares. A smaller member of his ensemble tugged on his coat, eyes fearful, soaked to the skin.

"Ser?"

"I'm no knight." Mentally kicking himself, Astaron corrected his rudeness. "I'm sorry, what is it?"

"We've been travelling a long way, we must stop to make water soon."

"Well, we'll get there in thirty... half an hour. Is there any way it can wait?" Why am I even asking?

"No." She turned her face downward. "Sorry…Maester."

"It's all right, I'll bet there are others." He looked to the crowd of children behind him, their names and unfortunate fates racing through his mind.

Asanna Snow, likely a bastard of Barrowton had a full bladder. She designed not to talk more often than not, and her closest companion was half again her age. How can such a small girl have such a full bladder?

Reynisi Frey, father killed in the Red Wedding, forced to escape on the fastest cart she could find to Barrowton, the first town she saw. The cart's owner, already laboring with twenty stone, noticed and had his way with her, likely not in the knowing nor caring she was only just twelve and unflowered. She spoke less, and Assana made silent company.

Barta had no last name and was a common girl. She worked in an inn, sweeping the floors and the like. The Knight of the Black Dagger had sought to slash all who lived in Barrowton, but Barta escaped with the group.

Coliete Stitch resisted going with them, eager to look for her parents in Torrhen's Square even after its plight. Maybe she was delusional. Maybe she was the only one among them with hope.

Motte was the last, and had not spoken at all. According to Coliete, she had arrived in Torrhen's Square only a day before they were both evacuated for Barrowton. Her identity was to be protected, and all the group knew was that she had been saved from Asha Greyjoy's fury.

"Is there anyone who has to make water?" Three hands pointed to the heavens, including Assana's. Fuck it, it can't be helped. He motioned for them to disperse into the trees while he looked after the livestock. In all his life at the Citadel, he never thought he would stoop to stealing a colt for some little maid to ride. He asked they take turns on it, and never took one himself. Am I doing the right thing? What is the right thing? What should I use to tell me what is right? The questions did not stop when they reached the open area, a ruin in the distance.

"Who's that? Is he a friend of yours?"Coliete asked innocently. A man in leather and mail watched astride a speckled horse in the distance, in the clearing beyond the trees and swamp. If there were a sigil on his doublet, Astaron could not see it.

"We're going to go around him. We want to stay out of the rain around here." The Neck was a dangerous place. Gods, what am I doing here? It was only a week since he found the girls fleeing in distress under the charge of an ancient knight.

"Do you swear before gods and men that you will deliver these children safely?"

"I- yes, I swear!" The man reared his horse and charged back into Barrowton, like as not knowing his death would come soon. If for nothing other than admiration at the man's will did Astaron take the girls with him. He had been on his way to Torrhen's Square or perhaps Winterfell to serve as maester, but according to the girls, it was unwise to go to either. At his decision, they would go around Blazewater Bay and make their way west to Flint's Finger. His contemplation was cut short with the arrival of no fewer than four brigands before him, surfacing from behind trees up ahead and slowly circling his charge.

"They say honest men have no need to hide in the wood and swamp." You were hiding there. Astaron knew better than to mention that.

"Then perhaps the only honest one here is the knight of the clearing." The maester indicated in the direction of the clearing they had just passed, but no horseman could be seen.

"A careful man would mind what he implies." Taunted a footpad.

"What do you want with us?"

"What do you want with them? I have no idea what a young man such as yourself would be doing with maids." They inched closer and closer, leading Astaron to wonder what threat they perceived. Might that it's the old rumor maesters have magic on their sides. Might that I'd show them.

"Leave us alone. As the court maester, Lord Robin will not be pleased to hear about this." The imposter lifted his chain on his neck to display its links.

"Might be he won't then." Looking to take him down quickly, the first man brought down a short sword on him, only stopped by the chain Astaron now had completely off his neck. Despite being a man of nine and thirty, he was strong enough to hold the man's sword, kicking him in the shin ineffectually. As the second reared, he was yanked off to the side somehow, but all the maester could see out of the corner of his eye was a broken sword coming out of a scabbard. The third man approached to his right and the girls scattered, forcing him and the fourth to give chase, probably to prevent them from bearing word to Flint's Finger. As the first man finally broke Astaron's grip and prepared to stab, his eyes went dead as a flash of steel could be seen, if at all, across his throat. Immediately he turned to the other bandits pursuing the girls, sprinting after the one who had caught Assana and grappling him, forcing him to the ground. He wore no armor, and Astaron forced his throat against a nearby tree, keeping his sword arm down with his other hand and foot. Assana cried and kicked him, doing no visible damage. Stealing a look over, he saw a man in mail running after the last brigand, who held Reynisi to his chest with a dagger to her throat. The strength faded from the man who hurt his youngest and the maester with no master sprinted to the last man, who wore only a full helm and steel chest plate with boiled leather leggings. The most unwelcome armament, however, drew innocent Frey blood. It was a black dagger with a silver fold close to the hilt.

"Let her go." Ordered the man in mail.

"The Knight of the Black Dagger swore to the Freys that all who took refuge in Barrowton would die. He will fulfill his duty, he will do so on his honor."

"You're killing Reynisi Frey. She escaped the wedding." Warned the maester as the girls slowly crept back, seeing that they were no longer pursued.

"He does not believe." The man in mail pointed his sword, broken for half its length at the hostage taker.

"If you don't believe, and you have honor, then fight."

"The Knight of the Black Dagger is challenged by the Knight of the Broken Sword? Might be that's too perfect to ignore." He released the Frey girl and rose to full height. Astaron quickly rounded up his charge and motioned to set off, but the girls were set on watching. Damn those songs. He's a bloody hero, isn't he? Without a word, the hedge knight charged and thrust his dagger forth, only to be sidestepped, if poorly, and cut on the arm. He swung wildly and caught Broken Sword in the ribs, forcing him to leap backward, resisting the urge to clutch his wound. Black Dagger struck out with an iron boot aimed at his foe's face, but found himself being pulled farther forward rather than resisted. A broken sword went into his exposed calf and he felt the ground with his back and seconds later a man's leather boot with his throat. After that, Astaron did not expect him to feel anything.

"My name is Straachan." The mysterious man said once bearings could be regained. He had removed his armor and was allowing the silver link on Astaron's chain to be recognized as its owner cleaned and dressed his wound. Likely it isn't. Likely you're just some sellsword. I'm only helping him because he helped us. The trees whispered that he did more than help.

"No 'Ser'? What house?"

"I haven't a house, not really. On the Isle of the Songs, we have but a town."

"The Isle of the Songs? There's no such place."

"We're far west out of Blazewater Bay. We were, at least." Astaron let the matter drop. Whether the island existed or not, the girls would want to see it. 'Isle of the Songs', gods be good, why did they have to call it that?

"He should be a knight!" called out Coilete eagerly. Holding up a hand to stay her excitement, the maester responded carefully.

"Knights are sworn in service of a lord or king."

"Well, he can swear he'll be Lord Robin's knight!" the potential knight in question gave a downcast expression.

"Is that where you're going?" Coliete nodded excitedly. "I'm sorry. Lord Robin's dead." Mentally kicking himself, the scholar stood, finished patching up the man's ribs. I should have expected it. As a lord of the North, he would be invited to the wedding.

"Well, we're going there anyway. If nothing else, we can find passage." Said Astaron decisively. As Straachan stood, he whistled for his horse, who came carefully through the thick trees.

"I hope you don't intend to go past Cape Kraken. The ironmen are dangerous, you face a man who has seen their wastes. They laid waste to our island, all in search of some fool's masque."

"Well, you can't expect us to cross the North!" The scholar grew exasperated and it certainly came out in his voice.

"We can't go south. The only safe place in the North is the Dreadfort."

"Then we arrive at House Flint and cross that bridge when we get to it." Astaron declared with a sense of finality. Who in the seven hells is this sellsword to tell me what to do? I've studied from boyhood, and I'm far from done. When Straachan had no problem with the plan, he turned to help the girls onto the mounts. It would be a long walk to the castle, and the nameless colt would have the longest walk of all. Asses and donkeys were never known to be true work animals, and travelling great distances with a load would be something for which they were neither ready nor willing to undertake. At any rate, the horse could carry two girls at once, and they seemed to enjoy riding it almost as much as they enjoyed Straachan's presence. Not a minute passed between questions of him, and they had insisted he take the armor and swords of the fallen brigands, likely not because it would serve him, but so his appearance would shine. What is it about this man that makes them lose their sense? They had all seen war, they knew the horrors of what men would do. Maybe it's that he has no lord.

"State your business." The sentry outside the castle called after a long journey of wondering. The donkey had died and three of the girls held back tears, but insisted that they bury it with a name. Astaron carved something short into a rock with the spike on the back of the Black Dagger he had picked up and kept for himself.

"We seek asylum." Astaron answered simply. We have a knight who considers your employ, and five orphans. One is a Frey." Here I am, implying the girl can be used as a hostage.

"Don't we all." The guard answered, not reveling whether or not he would let them in as he disappeared.

"Yes. We do." The maester quietly said to himself.

If you're interested, please review. I try to update regularly.


	2. Outset part 2

STRAACHAN

It was nigh on dark before the watchman allowed them in.

"Look- I don't know you- I'm not sure I want to know you. But one thing I have to ask is your intent. We're in a castle now, I have the advantage, not like the wild where you and your scores of hedge knight friends make the rules." The maester started with him when they were both alone. Lord Robin's daughter of six and ten had allowed the girls into the two guest rooms, leaving Straachan and this frankly quite mysterious man by his judgment, to find what sleep they could elsewhere.

"I don't know what you're on about. I came to help you." The knight responded harshly. I can't have this man opposing me if we're going to stay together. We had better get it all out now.

"Oh, like I can believe that. Nobody just helps anyone."

"Well what about you and those girls?"Straachan returned angrily, without thinking.

"I couldn't leave them. I was acting under orders." That's not the whole truth.

"You're barely a full maester. No man is giving you orders. You don't even know about Westeros!" The knight continued to lose control as he spoke. "And what about me? Can't I say that I couldn't leave the girls?" The scholar walked away.

"Of course you can. But don't expect me to trust you." Maybe I won't trust you, then. The men parted ways, the younger seeking a drink of the grape before bed. Never aught hard, just something to quiet the pain in his skull- the pain hounded him, never relenting, and it felt as though hammers beset his helm.

"Any sort of wine, if you have it." He said in response to the unheard question the maid asked. She scurried off as he sat down across from a man in a deep blue robe. The local tavern had not taken long to reach, and his feet had seemed to guide him there, leaving his mind to wonder about the locals. There was a private back room, likely for quiet meetings, but Straachan had seen no man go in. The hooded man on the off side of his table rarely looked up, and when he did, it was at the door. Women cast worrisome glances at Straachan, and his hand slowly went below the table, where his sword seemed ready to pull itself free.

"My trade does not concern you, knight." Came a whisper of the robed one across him. "But you are him who would find himself concerned all the same, yes?" He spoke like a Braavosi, but Straachan would little know one from a Targaryen.

"Go on."

"I await a man meeting an assassin, he waits in the shade room."

"You're going to check the employer."

"The only way Stannis Baratheon escapes death at the hands of the Faceless Man is that this one in particular is not employed."

"What does he want?"

"An unimaginable price will sate his hunger. Something only a king can provide." At that moment, an ironman, immediately recognizable as a Greyjoy with his sable and gold, stepped inside. The man had black hair down to his shoulders and his only eye, contentedly searching the room, was black as well. As the hooded man began to stand, Straachan held him back.

"How can you be sure?"

"Euron Greyjoy has no wish to face the stags in battle, the rumors say he is protected by occult arts. No man expects this. Not one."

"What do you mean to do? You can't kill him. I likely couldn't either." The unknown man broke from his grasp, striding over to the armored king.

"Valar Morghulis" whispered he as he sat across the Iron King.

"Valar Dohaeris. Do you expect me to believe you are the Faceless Man? He doesn't speak until he sees gold. He'll listen to your drivel once he knows it's real."

"My reputation precedes me. But there are down goings of even this. All a man need do is threaten to call upon me. And so I am in need of gold."

"Very well." Euron placed a single gold coin on the table, a rose was carved on it."

"That is no dragon."

"Of course, but surely you could tell the gold is real." He's a trick. Without a moment's hesitation, the nameless man put the gold in his teeth, just as an armored fist punched the coin. Straachan stood before the kraken could speak, drawing his sword as the false assassin spat out blood and teeth on the floor.

"That's enough."

"He lied. The rumors were of my own invention, dear hedge. Now unless you plan to tell me you too are the Faceless Man-"

"How do you else know?" Straachan asked angrily. "I am the man who saw you before you saw me. I have a sword at your eye." It was true enough, and this gave the king a moment of pause. One swipe and the pain of my people would be-

"My name is-"

"Euron Greyjoy. I knew your name. I have been sent here to kill you by Stannis Baratheon, who tells me you will make a better offer, but I am to follow his order before considering yours." Straachan was thinking as quickly as his mind would allow. The man he faced, there could be no uncertainty, was both stronger and smarter. But a man would live if he believed otherwise.

"And what exactly do you plan to do? Kill me? I assume this man was some sort of distraction."

"I mean to hear your offer." The knight responded simply. His wine had appeared on the table without his notice and he reached back with his left arm for it.

"If indeed, you are the real Faceless Man, I mean you to kill the old stag for no more than a thousand dragons."

"A jape? He offered half again the amount. I nearly killed him in anger when he suggested less. His Hand was not close at hand, as the jest went."Straachan was not accustomed to talking in such a roundabout way. He liked it when people expressed their thoughts clearly, so he usually did the same. He swallowed the wine at once, carefully replacing it behind him.

"If you could kill me, then fight." The patrons slowly stood around the two of them and at a snail's pace set for the door, preparing for flight and closely watching the two armored men, both of whom now had swords drawn. Slowly the hooded man stood from his place on the ground, having patched up his face with bandages and a rag. The man would never be beautiful, but perhaps he never was, what with the fondness for the hood, thought the knight of the naked shield.

"Valar Morghulis." Straachan opened with a kick, always having relied on his strength more than weapons. His greaves could not withstand the blow from the Greyjoy's armor, but as he pushed the king, it mattered little. The black haired man staggered, but came back with uncommon fury, forcing Straachan on the defensive. It was all he could do to repel the blows, to say nothing of returning any. Once he was sure he had been nicked on the shoulder, but could pay it no mind. He kicked a chair with his off foot as they danced around, which stole Euron's one eye but for a moment. Drawing back, he deflected the king's half blind blow and struck him around the eyepatch with his shielded fist. But even in pain, the kraken could not be kept back. His blows grew faster and more savage, but had no less care than before, each only just being deflected. Straachan felt a gap in the man's placing and struck blindly, hitting in the withers. Leaping back, he had a better view.

"I yield. For now." The knight could scarce believe his hearing. "Your friend here is true, and a truer craven. I trust you noticed when he tried to grapple me?" That explains the opening.

"Of course. The Many Faced God sends his regards." Uttered the hooded man, on account of missing teeth in great pain.

"You have but a month. I expect to hear of it done cleanly, with no traces to the Iron islands."

"You have my word. The stag will not know of my approach." Weapons went slowly back into their sheathes and the tavern's keep crept inside. The kraken, not lingering over the place in which he had suffered a slight wound, quit the premises, like as aught a man to return. Without heeding the hooded man, Straachan turned to the door in the back, marching into the room where he knew he would find the Faceless Man.

"Apparently even those of the most accomplished order need sleep." spake his battle companion, if he could be called that. In any nomenclature, he was right. The assassin was passed out in a bed that was little more than a slab and a few furs. The knight turned to the robed man, having closed the door behind them.

"Who are you?" It was no question. At his reticence, Straachan picked him up by the front of his robes, pressing the man's back against the closed door. The hood fell away to reveal an older man's face, perhaps one of five and sixty.

"My name is Jaehaerys Storm."

"A high name for a bastard-"

"It was a jape."

"Now or seventy years ago?"

"In those days, bastards were treated with more mockery than ignorance."

"How did you know about Euron?"

"The king's Hand told me what to foresee before sending me out. I was to disappear after convincing the Iron King."

"What do we do now?" He let the man down. Perhaps he was given to trust, perhaps he was a fool. "We could have killed the greatest danger to the realm if he had made another mistake."

"That would not be likely. He made one mistake, and it convinced him you were Faceless. Fear and arrogance worked against him."

"We're getting nowhere. All we can do now is get some rest. I've got a friend who knows nigh on naught of kings, but much of war, from his black iron link. We talk to him, should he still be talking to me, and we cross that bridge when we get to it." Jaehaerys nodded silently. The two of them left the bar quietly, intent on Storm's refuge he had used while awaiting the kraken. It was little more than a cave, but it would serve. If Straachan would live, he would serve to be a knight- a true one to the death.

For all men must die.


	3. Outset part 3- Astaron

ASTARON

As he forced himself out of bed in the maester's quarters, he contemplated life at the castle. It was an entirely too disaster prone area, considering its proximity to the Iron Islands, but at the same time, it was pleasant. Robin's daughter was a droll girl turned woman, and he enjoyed her company, though, of course, in an official capacity, there would be no extra ordinary ties between maester and lady. At Oldtown, he had chosen to work on his Smithing first, and yet found there was one discipline absent from his knowledge testified by his link of pale steel.

"What makes it so strong?" he asked, holding his newfound and yet likely ancient dagger to the morning sunlight as he took a walk outside, developing a fondness for the grape. The weapon was mostly black with some silvery folding near the base, and the scholar suspected this was due to the way in which Valyrians made the steel, theoretically folding the metal hundreds of times, increasing the strength. Even the most accomplished modern smiths, however, could not recreate the strength. Thinking that logically a secret component was present, his thoughts were interrupted by a beckoning by Straachan, who stood adjacent to a hooded man, an elder by his posture.

"What are you doing? Who is he?"

"We've recently run into Euron Greyjoy. This is a friend of the realm. As a maester, you swore to serve the realm." Are you just going to stare at me with your stupid look?

"I meant rightly to know what his name was. This is no discussion for the commons anyway." He said, deciding that there were too many potential listener's around. They made their way into the castle, going through long, dark corridors going deep underground, ceilings getting lower as they went, making the song knight appear ever taller and more intimidating.

"My name is Jaehaerys Storm. I am a servant of the realm and Stannis Baratheon, rightful king." Well, we've discovered a new notch of buffoonery.

"Do you expect me to believe-"

"You have to." Straachan cut him off.

"In all the seven hells, why-"

"He has no reason to lie to us."

"Not a half day ago, you slew brigands without even looking."

"This man is naught if not courageous. He is no highwayman."

"Oh, and I'm to believe that on what charge? Did he perchance _tell you_ a tale of himself courageous? And you're avoiding this horseshit about Euron Greyjoy."

"He assaulted Euron Greyjoy." Am I to laugh or walk away from these lunatics?

"Your heads would only tell that tell from the prow of a ship, where more than like they'd be mounted."

"They tell it truly."

"We met him in the Dark Grape at midnight or near enough as makes no matter." Interjected the bastard. "He put up gold on a kill-list- a thousand dragons if I remember correctly."

"What happened to the gold?"

"It only counts when the job is finished." Lackwits. They aren't even considering going for the bounty, and didn't take the chance of killing the kraken.

"What do you intend to do? Sail out into Blazewater Bay and kill Euron in single combat? This isn't a damnable song!"

"No. He has already lost. It would have been a craven thing to kill a man who yielded, and Storm suggests the iron king will like as not come to think I died in the attempt if no word returns."

"That's it then? What in the hells do I have to do with any of this?"

"Greyjoy will go to another Faceless if the first proves unsuccessful . We need to find a crime committed by an assassin, blame it on someone who said like Straachan here that he was after Stannis Baratheon, and we need to make as much as matter know that it was a Braavosi behind it."

"And you serve the realm." Straachan finished. Astaron was past the point of anger, but at this point, his words would be wasted. The maester sighed. This man was a knight, papers or not.

"I have no knowledge of any assassinations. When I hear of one, I'll tell you."

"You're of luck." I disbelieve. "We already heard of a dubious murder in the streets of Duskendale. Escenane Waters, supposed bastard of House Rykker returned from Sothoryos a week ago to find a knife in his throat. Unwilling to let men say he planned it, Leek's been directing the Crownlands to believe it a case of self-slaughter." explained the bastard. Why are there so many bastards?

"We believe-" followed the knight "-we can get you there. The girls will arrive safely at King's Landing." The girls? What about me?

"There is no guarantee they will be safe there. If anything, the crowns will learn of their bearing and use them as pawns, especially young Motte."

"We have a Frey up our sleeves." returned Jaehaerys, unwilling to be out done as he shuffled his hands into the sleeves of his robe as if to produce her. "Coliete is likely of means, but disconnected from her family, no connections can be drawn. Two are bastards, and Motte will be safer where the royals are not looking for her."

"My _concern-_" quested Astaron emphatically "-is not their lives in the city, but how they _get in._"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." And with that, the discussion was over.

The kindness of moribund House Robin had extended until noon, as good of a time to set out as any, by Astaron's reckoning. The journey would be a long one, but with the supplies restocked, the horse should hold out. He never asked what the name of the speckled beast was, but the scholar suspected it was sentimental enough to make the girls keel over. With the apparent intent to set every wrong in the world aright, his was an attractive post. Bound to no master, he could not be coerced into any war in which he wanted no part. If we do ever get him a painted shield, he ought to paint a bird.

The first major obstruction would like as not be the swamps. Men at arms were dangerous, but being lost was a far more hopeless death. Of course, the group would avoid Moat Cailin, and so unlikely was the prospect of being overtaken, they hardly considered it. Nobody looks for small, female refugees in a swamp. No one looks for anyone in a swamp. So far, there have been no notable examples where the effort has been worth aught.

"Tell me, Astaron." Straachan started to ask his companion. "What might it be that makes Waters color his tunic red?"

"Well, I hardly know. You told me about this case naught more than odd hours ago. I have no idea who this fool of a dignitary is, anyway, or what he was doing in Sothoryos. At the Citadel, the most we know, which is the most _anyone _knows is that the whole continent teems with disease! The only thing that makes me marvel more than the absurd notion a man has to get into his head to _go _there is the chance he has of coming _back_!" the maester finished angrily. Gods, why in the seven hells do these fools not know about the Green one?

Apparently sensing his anger, the girls turned away. He had not noticed them paying attention the entire time. Well, would you look at that -another reason for me to be some monster to them. This is my _just deserts _for being around men all these years.

Straachan, however, was on one hand too thick and on another too much more the obstinate to leave the matter where it was. Through his brigand-looted helmet, it was technically impossible to judge which, but the scholar had a suspicion to the prior.

"It pains me to suggest such a thing, but there are men with terrible reasons for the terrible things they do. I know little of the Green hell, and know that a man does best to avoid objects of evil, but there are those who would intentionally seek them out. What sort of horrors would he release on the world that spurned him?" Straachan spoke slowly, choosing each word with care. "Death is not the worst of evils." The eight of them rode and walked on in silence, electing to avoid further confrontation.

"Here we are." Storm put his pack under the overhang of a small promontory. The lot of them would sleep quietly and well in the shade and the cool weather. Swamps were upon them, and in the morning there would be fatiguing and long travels ahead. But first, camp was established and Astaron fell asleep without complaint from his normally active mind.

In the night he was on the quarried blocks of dragonglass, cutting himself as he looked up. He was in an immense chamber, seeing clearly neither the height nor the length of the hall, but along the walls to his left and right depictions of slaughter and pain littered the walls.

"SPEAK, MORTAL. I HAVE TIME TOO LITTLE FOR ALL OF THE LIKES OF YOU." Astaron turned as he realized that he stood in a throne room and on a throne of ice and dragonglass sat a king in radiant armor of vermillion, ten-no, twenty score in height.

"Who are you?"

"I AM HIM WHO MAKES THE WOMEN WAIL AS WIND WIDOWS."

"How do they call you?" asked the scholar, fearfully.

"THEY CALL ME WHEN EVEN THE CHILDREN AND FRESH SPAWN ARE NOT SPARED."

"What is your name?!" Shouted Astaron. The metal giant of a man laughed and seized an empty scabbard from behind his seat.

"I HAVE NO WEAPON. I AM THE WEAPON. IT WAS I WHO TERRIFIED THE BASILISK ISLANDS, I WHO KILLED NINE MEN IN TEN, I WHO MADE THE WORLD SCREAM ONLY SEVEN AND SEVENTY YEARS FROM THE FALL OF OLD VALYRIA." Astaron said nothing and simply stared, uncertain whether or not he was dreaming.

"MY NAME IS RED DEATH." The scene fragmented and shifted.

A woman clutching at her heart struggled to breathe on a wooden floor. Instinctively, he shuffled through the hidden interior pockets on his robe as he rushed over to her, yelling for her to lie still, but finding his voice to fail. He held her down and seized the willow powder from his robes, putting as much as necessary down her throat and forcing her to swallow. Relief bathed over him and he began to compress her heart repeatedly, doing everything in his power to keep her alive. She choked and calmed down, at first struggling to sit up, but did not resist when he forced her down again, instructing her to lie still until he could be sure she was safe. As the image faded, he caught one word.

"It does a man well to be prepared."

"Rise. We have some distance to cover." The maester struggled to his feet at the knight's command, intending with every bone to be equally worthy of a title by which none had addressed him.

"I rise as I always rise. If you see any willow trees, tell me. There will never be a time I have no need for the bark." Straachan's helmet nodded, then turned to set its master about his work. As the scholar rose, the pain in his back requested more favorable sleeping arrangements on any following night, and Astaron had little intention to disabuse any of his body parts of such a hope.

The travelers had come far and had far to travel.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the extra week. I had an inordinate amount of things to do.


	4. Outset part 4- Sasera

SASERA

It was a nice name, she thought to herself. A new name for a new life, and a new life for a fugitive. It was not to the greater part of men's knowledge that there were abandoned houses in the forests and swamps of the neck, and, south of the Saltspear, no suspecting traveler would have aught chance to recognize her anyway.

Rivers would like as not be her last name, after all, it was easier than conjuring up an entire life story, and bastardry made an attractive mate for a man wandering through with no intention of staying. As a former pickpocket, it was out of her custom to be alone for more than a moon's turn, and the company she kept brought more than gold and heat. She was no stranger to love. In fact, she rather enjoyed using a man and sending him on his pointless path to whatever hells or oblivion that lie beyond. For her part, it was closer to oblivion, and well, for the gods were not known to smile upon her path, or at least that was the drivel from the aging septon from her youth in Torrhen's Square. Sasera cared little.

The false identity would be incomplete without a stark difference in appearance. She ran her hair on the moon's turning through a mixture she had concocted which turned it from red gold to black, or mahogany, depending on the light.

"Words are wind" the man with some absurd false name told her when she affirmed she was the greatest lover the crowned heads of seven kingdoms had known. She would show him the truth of it, but a request of a single dragon belied her true intents. Since then, her brief life of glamour was over, but if there were gods, and the gods were good, there would still be whispers of the woman she once was. As to the present woman, the carapace around her true self, she was without fault. Only once had she made a mistake. She had counted the days since then, with decreasing worry, and more certainty ever passing one that she would on one wake and lose count. It had been nine and seventy days. There was a knock at the door, and she allowed an older man to enter. He was a maester, the summer of whose years slowly waned.

"Are you here for the night?" Why do men like it when I pretend I know nothing?

This one in particular appeared ready to assent, but shrugged off the feeling and asked if there were some place for the children. Sasera's countenance visibly fell, and she told him there was a cellar, but there would be a fee for him. At once, a man stepped forth, one in armor leading a horse with grace. He removed his helm and let his short brown hair and deep blue eyes be seen.

"Is there a place for the horse?"

"Of course." She led him around to what once served as a woodshed. "And for you, gentle knight- there is a place as well. I ask nothing of you." The maester turned to face the woods silently.

"My companion is older than I. Your offer is generous, but another holds hostage my heart." He leaned closer to her, whispering softly. "There are septons who say that some sins are blacker than others. I did not rise to manhood with this faith, so perhaps I am unfair, but I do not share this belief. The gods believe we are all the same, else they would help some and hurt others." She smiled at his sentiment and turned away. It did men who would have her well not to have known her, she knew that much. But did it do her well not to know the men she would have? In her belly there was an urge to have his seed and the Moon Mother's tea after, but this was not a man like the others, and yet- men were the same in his eyes.

It seems I'm no god, then.

He left her to find his friend, but the older man would have none of it. Rain would soon arrive, but the scholar would sooner freeze and die than stoop to sleep anywhere near Sasera. All the while, a man who had hidden his identity shuffled four or five children in through the door. She had not counted on this amount, but allowed it on the condition that the hooded man, an elder by his gait, would watch the children in the cellar.

"There isn't much to eat out here." she told the knight, after they had exchanged names, once all were inside but the maester. Where he had hidden himself, Sasera did not know. "But I manage with the fruit that grows about and the man who comes by with blood sausages." I get plenty of another sort of sausage from him as well. A look of concern played across the man's face.

If he's worked out that I never get out, he's a sharper mind than I thought.

"On the island where I lived, there was an old man who ate nothing but sausage. He died, in great pain, apparently. True, he was old… but the maester I met says he should have lived longer, had he not caused his heart trouble. I don't understand it myself. I only know what I saw." The mood darkened, but Sasera did not let it daunt her. She knew about old stories, always taking place so long ago no one could remember specific things. It annoyed her when people never stuck to anything specific.

"Do you know any songs from your island? The only one I can remember is 'The Black Bear and the Maiden Fair'. Where is this island, anyway?"

"I know we have quite a few, but at the moment, I can remember but one. The name is 'Woman Scorned', and I hope to never find a time where it's relevant. At all."

"Why did they call it that?" she asked as she stood, hoping it was not some long diatribe about women in general. She suspected this knight knew better than that, though. "It sounds most interesting." In response, Straachan was silent through four of his own breaths and five of hers, then sang, softly at first.

"I was a man for a day, if e-ver in my life" Sasera cleared her throat before he could get to the next line. There was a stiffness in her chest. This one sounds good, she thought.

"If there were a way, to go back to the day-

-for I came to rue the troubles, rife-

No dragons could allay, or get in my way.

There was a woman and I loved her, loved with all my heart.

Wherefore did I all that I did, I dare not even start." Straachan paused after the long note, taking in the moment. Across him, Sasera felt her own heart growing heavy, like a stone in her chest.

She took me in her and I thought her true

I did whatever she said to do,

But she hurt my heart, and a wiser man

-might have told me to let her go.

But I tell you now, all that I can-

She turned as cold as snow." He continued his quiet song and she put her hand over her heart, compelled. In her head she felt light. Is this love? Is it?

After almost half again an hour had passed since she had invited him in, there was a knock at the door. Sasera could hardly get the words out, but asked if there were more friends of his. At his concerned shake of his head, he stood and found his helmet and sword. She walked across the room, opening the door, hoping for anyone other than a customer. She found a fist.

"That's the girl, Donal." affirmed a rough man as he stepped inside. It was the man from whom she had stolen, and he was angry.

"What is this?!" shouted Straachan. "Explain yourself or die!"

"My name is Denys Darklyn. And like as not, it'll be you dying today." The knight had his sword out in a heartbeat, its swift point to the other man's throat in a second. "But first, I shall entertain you. Donal, get your man in here. A swordsman strode in carefully, following some peasant with a pack. It was him from so long ago, nine and seventy days to the hour. "This woman, if the gods do not take offence that I so name her, is no more than a thief. A skilled one, to tell it true, but a thief none the less. My new friend here told me some weeks ago that he stumbled upon a cottage of a whore." That's a lie, he came to me. "When I asked if she had any distinctive markings, that I may have again my gold, he told me there was a scar on her back, near her rounded buttocks. He says he felt it, and thought at once of my pursuit of the known thief, Asanna Snow." It had been almost half a year since she had heard that name. But she left Asanna in Torrhen's square, and was Sasera inside her mind and without.

"Sasera is no pickpocket, whatever her crimes may be." Straachan responded. "If every brigand who came were to tell me who I am, I'd be worse a fool." He took on the swordsman blow for blow, steel and steel, that she could not fully follow it as she slumped in her chair, finding it took an unexpected amount of effort to breathe. What's going on? Wherefore does this man act this way- and my heart? The knight shouted as the other swordsman got the better of him, recoiling as the assailant strode across the room at the order of Denys Darklyn.

"If you claim to not be the same woman I and this man shared- you will not have the mark." As Straachan forced himself to his feet and the trap door opened, the head of the old man being seen, the swordsman slashed at Sasera's back and she howled in pain, flailing as he revealed the scar on her lower back. Her mind was awash with pain- both inside and out, and as the knight stood, the skilled man at arms turned and slashed once, but Sasera could not see it. Donal searched the room for gold. He'll never find it, not where I hid it- never. From the basement he dragged up the old man despite the efforts of a little girl to hold onto him. She was northron, but the sight of her was unclear from the pain.

"Where is the gold?!" Denys shouted, like as not out of patience. He was like that as a lover.

"Stop, please, we had no idea-" Denys interrupted the old man by seizing the girl and dragging her to the fire still burning from the time Sasera faintly recalled taking the sausages off it.

"Talk!"

"I don't know- nothing you can do will-" Denys did not like having his abilities questioned. He was like that as a lover, too. He heaved the girl into the fire, warding the old man off with a knife. Sasera's vision grew worse, black spots began to appear, clouding everything but the pain in her chest. Darklyn kicked the knight in the head as he went out of the cottage, content with the gold the swordsman had picked up from the shelf. That was the maester's gold, though. That was not mine.

The girl's screams were all she heard as everything went dark.


	5. Astaron 3

ASTARON

The air was rank and smelled of death. From the thin moss hanging off the tree, the maester checked his footing as he climbed still higher. What did that whore know anyway- can she recite the children of the first Jaehaerys? The second? Astaron cursed himself, thinking of the dragonkings as though they made matter when the rain was all but killing him for chill.

"ASTARON!" came a shout from the ground. Oh, what is it now? Are we making mockery of me again. "ASTARON!" It's the old man's voice- this might be serious, thought the called as he slipped from the tree. "Thank the gods you hid, they might have killed you!" Is he angry or just shouting?

As he found himself shoved inside, more important matters were on hand before he could find out.

"What's going on here?" Astaron asked, not waiting for an answer. The woman looked dead, or near enough as makes no matter, there was a small, charred, corpse on the floor, and Straachan was nursing a head wound, full armor but for his head. He ordered the woman to lie still as the other men were shouting over him.

"Where in the seven hells were-"Straachan began.

"Stop, he's not a fighter-"

"Neither is Asanna." Oh, gods, is that the corpse? This wasn't how it was in the dream. Astaron quickly forced the treatment down the woman's throat

"What are you doing?" the knight demanded. You have no right to be angry- I am in control here!

"This is powder of willow- never mind, it's unlike you even know." The other man was angry, but did not strike, however ready he appeared. He compressed the woman's chest, but it took longer than he expected. He kept at it while the other two stood over him, working long into the night. As he stood up, she breathed, but had difficulty. He instructed her not to stand.

"What now?" asked Straachan of Storm.

"We need to get out of these woods as soon as we can. Sasera Rivers is every bit of a target as Asanna Snow." He sat down on the nearest chair of the small table behind him, and forcefully scratched words into a book he had drawn from his robes.

"What are you writing?"

"Think about it. How did that man introduce himself?"

"Denys Darklyn." responded Straachan, not following.

"Where could you find Darklyns half a hundred years ago?"

"I don't know."

"Duskendale. That's where we're going. I've to me a plan, and an old mind. I need to write it down lest it be gone on the morrow."

On the morrow, they were off. Sasera, who had roused, was silent most of the way, confidence visibly lost. Astaron tried to keep the knowledge of Asanna's death from the girls as long as possible, but they knew before he told them, only a few leagues away from The Twins. along the Green Fork, they passed a company lead by a woman introducing herself as Jyana Reed the younger, in search of a man by the name of Brown Courser, a sellsword. When asked her purpose, she turned abruptly after stating, with frustration of uncertain necessity, that he was a wanted man, part of a rebel group called the Swords Sable. To the knowledge of Storm, after her departure, the Swords were less of rebels and more of conspirators. They employed sellswords, if they existed, but the actual members were on the whole opposed to the existence of kings. Again, if they existed. Well, it's clear to see what you believe.

The Twins were in sight before the day's end, but it took until then that Astaron managed to clear their passage. Upon seeing her, Reynisi ran into the arms of Janyce Frey, formerly Hunter, Edwyn and his cold eyes nodding toward Straachan with something like respect. No words were required between the two of them, a purse was offered and waved away. Though the knight knew little about greater Westeros, Frey gold was known to come with hidden cost, and Astaron suspected it was not days from his arrival on the continent before the man was disabused of the notion of honor among Freys.

"What do we do with the girls now?" asked Astaron quietly of Storm. "She was our failsafe."

"She was our only plan. But she is with her family now, even though it is a smaller one." He paused, taking in his surroundings. "Barta and Coliete are destined by the Lord of Light for lives of work, and no man or woman is disgraced by honest labor. Of Motte, her future is uncertain as her real name."

"Say she's discovered to be someone of worth."

"Then we're taking her in the wrong direction. You know the history." The servant of Stannis Baratheon was right. Duskendale was ever hostile to royalty, and Motte was like as not no better off. Though it had been decades, no man had forgotten Denys Darklyn's offense to the Iron Throne."

"Say she's not discovered."

"Her father and mother will be concerned for her disappearance. Would we have them believe her dead?" Astaron chose not to respond. He knew the answer Storm would expect, but not the one he would give. Could a man in all logical thinking hold another's life above his own? Astaron stared into the distance as the Twins shrunk from view.

"Might be that there is a way around all this."

"Would that there were. But I see Duskendale and hard decisions ahead, and neither can be evaded, for all your worth."

"Say Motte boards a ship for her home and one of us goes with her. We take her to the nearest port on the way, and split up without losing a day's walk."

"She has a chance to survive. But know that the ship will go the long way unless we split soon." Am I compelled to commit this early? Father above, judge me justly.

"I would be willing to see her to her destination. They may have need of a maester at Deepwood Motte." The bastard offered no response, there was little and less they could do until they knew more of the girl. Denys Darklyn was another matter altogether. It was Tywin Lannister who ruled the realm as the lord held the Mad King as captive, having killed two noteworthy knights in the taking. He lost his head when Barristan the Bold seized his captive. To Astaron, the most confusing point of the mummer's farce was that Serala of Myr was burned for supposed complicity.

As Hag's Mire came into distant view, the scholar considered depositing the girls at Fairmarket only some few thousand paces farther south. Surveying them, he could not fail to notice their silent watch of Straachan, each mannerism of his, scratching his mount's head as he walked beside it, smelling the air as the man had taken a liking to doing, even when he stepped off the trail to piss they watched, each asking to make water within heartbeats as though their bladders were controlled by his. But before the maester could further brood, a man who said he was 'out of Oldstones' stopped them. Why did we decide we must needs take the kingsroad?

"There's been a riot-"he began, struggling to catch his breath. "At Hag's Mire somebody's laid hands on a whole chest of gold." Gold. Why is it always gold? Astaron's link of yellow gold told him that in reality, gold was not of the gods, and every bit as useless as paper notes the knights were handing out. All the same, men believed in its value, and so it had value.

"What is there to be done? What of the king's men?" Asked Straachan in his calm, knightly voice. He was to find out and he would do it.

"There are eight of them-sellswords. They're holding the chest in the ruins-" he broke. "Ser, there are _bodies_ in the palisade. But _Tommen_? He's leagues away." As he spoke, Astaron broke in.

"Straachan, this is a farce of a trap. No man _lives _in Oldstones, this fool doesn't know the territory! The gold was to draw you in; the bodies are a response to your nature." The man's helmet whipped around as the words came through its holes.

"And just what is my nature?" He asked angrily with measured tone. The stranger began to retreat, but Astaron refused to let it by.

"You're a twice-damned hero, and you'll be thrice-damned when you rush into a trap. You draw first and draw conclusions later. When the world figures you a fool, it will take you as a fool."

"And it is your counting that the world will not figure you?" Straachan asked mockingly. "If there are any among us who will come with me, let them." The thief led him away and the girls slowly began to follow on the back of his speckled horse. The woman started off behind, unsure. Jaehaerys Storm looked at them as they drew off the kingsroad, and turned to Astaron.

"I see your place in this. Straachan took one look at Euron Greyjoy and found himself at my side. He knew not who I was, nor anything about my purpose."

"Then you know he is a fool."

"I owe my life to this fool of the Isle of the Songs."

"You believe it as much as he does, then."

"I believe that if there are any heroes from any songs, this man is one." The angered maester simply stared into the distance without responding. There was little point.

"What does Stannis Baratheon have over you?" There was a pause. Sasera, last in the party ahead, looked back as though to see if the hold was well strong.

"He's the first to treat me as the man. All my life I sought another man's good word to fill the hole that my bastard name left in me. But the trick with the Son of Fire is to cease the life of a craven. We held it up at Storm's End, the king's men were never able to flush us out. It was I who sent for Davos Seaworth, but of late… His Grace has had other tasks of me." The nature of these tasks was clear to Astaron. Even the dragonkings needed men to know the secrets of the realm. The maester had never met Varys the Spider, but there could be no clearer case.

"I owe him my life as well. I'll wager he never told you that." As per custom of the day, silence followed his answer as the two of them rushed, planning to circle Hag's Mire to the east, presumably to approach from the opposite side. It had been days riding and walking since they had surfaced the Whispering Wood, even at their well-fed and hurried pace. And we're two old men making for the mountains. We'll never make it.

Having passed Seagard long since, it came as a shock when riders were after the two of them.

"Yield!"

"Name yourselves!" I've spent most of my days at the Citadel, but I'll be a damned fool if that isn't the proper order of things.

"We are Jason Mallister's knights!" At this, he and the older man stopped.

"If you're looking for Brown Courser, we still haven't seen him." The knights would have exchanged looks if it were possible, but the helmets betrayed no expression.

"How did you know we would ask that-" one began, suspicious.

"Jyana Reed asked us about the very man. Can I aver it he's been moving south?"

"For the nonce. We know little and less about where he's going and what he wants."

"We have a pressing concern." Mother have mercy on me. "We have word that sellswords have taken Oldstones. They fight off any man they see a threat." The knights had understandably to Astaron not foreseen the issue, but responded in a satisfactory manner.

"You'll have to ride with us. Our mounts are fresh and well fed. We shall take these men."

"You can be certain?"

"This is the North. Only winter is certain. And as a man of wildling blood, Ser Jikkor of Skagos, I swear by the gods of my father and his, to threats to the safety of the women and children of this hold, I am winter and winter is death."


	6. Talowo-Valyria

TALOWO

Valyria smokes still. Centuries have passed and still the boulders embedded in the ground smoke. As a slave, the why was beyond his responsibility and reasonable concern, lest sudden fire mean danger to the party, at which point he was to report this information to Vaesyr, provided that he was available, failing that, the nearest overseer. Talowo shrugged as he pondered and drank. Westerosi will never get over their rules, and will get over their bureaucracy a day later.

"We're going to get it properly this time. We've discovered three hundred gold trinkets or near as much as makes no matter." Vaesyr paced as he spoke. It was rare to see the man himself. "Now lift."

Slaves four and forty through four and sixty forced the boards and steel ties under the smoking boulder. It was long suspected that raiders had parted the island from its riches, but there were a few places that had not yet been searched. Thus far, the world had been in fear of the curse. Of course, there was also the small matter of the boulders to negotiate. As the mass of rock and fire from the smoke and the heat and the screams lifted from its place, Jaloqo called out the object once more.

"There it is! I see the hilt!" He turned to Vaesyr as though the Westerosi did not notice. "It is the twin of Nightfall-you can see it in the guard!" Talowo knew little and less of swords to know of Nightfall and to say if his master told it true. He strained against the iron bar with the force that was, all the force in his boy's body. The boulder shifted mere inches and it was then that Jaloqo darted under, the length of his arm blessed by all the gods, he reached the hilt and seized the blade with all the strength and speed of a man about to lose an arm. Unable to resist the temptation to look over the blade as the party lowered the boulder, his curiosity was sated before handing it over to his master.

"Nightfall is a noble blade- black as the bones of a dragon." The master of masters began. "We may have a fool's imitation. The honor of the blade will be slighted should we name a sister before certainty is achieved."

"Of course, my lord." Talowo laughed inside. No two words could stand without the other pair. Vaesyr could not be troubled with either comment, eyes sliding from point to guard with the care and scrutiny of an expert. But even the slaves would call it beautiful, four feet or near, dark in color and rippled with a gold color. He slid the blade into a leather scabbard Talowo had found one and ten hours earlier.

"Boy." The master said simply in acknowledgement. The addressed thought at first the remark unkind, but in all fairness, he considered, his appearance was nothing more. He had never been thought tall among boys his age in Tall Trees Town, skin an inky black, too dark for shadows to play across his face. His eyes and head and bearing betrayed no extra ordinary intelligence or strength. The man turned away, stopping, starting again, finally stopping and turning back. "It is to me that you are lettered in Valyrian. My eyes are unclear." He, without further word, bade Talowo follow to another site, Jaloqo in succession.

"My lord-" The overseer began, cautiously "-this is a discovery of fortune impossible."

"Fain would I be so bold." That will silence the old fat bastard. "Of course, the Swords Sable will be apprised, but the true discovery- there mettle has merit." They approached the ruins of an ancient building, perhaps one that had fallen from a higher place. From the ruined, fading papers inside, it appeared to be a ravenry. A single, faded piece of parchment had been found by the Pentosi wife of an overseer. Almost immediately, the letter was extracted and handed to Talowo.

"The eyes of a man are never as sharp as those in a boy's skull. The irony is a curse from all the gods that I should not read this missive, with all that is in my heart for the language of my fathers." The irony is the curse of age, master. "The slave on hand recognized a single word- dracarys." No further explanation was needed. Talowo poured over the letter, reading it along.

"There is only death here, and no life where this letter will arrive. I can only hope that an old man, tired of eye and lost in back will incline an eye to the pain and misfortune in this hell of winter and giants. The prophecy foretold the walk through this land of a man from the loins of a true Valyrian noble house. I am not he, I have discovered. I am a failure to the freehold, and the blue dragon will soon die. Never more will dragonfire curse those who defy their rightful claim to the sky. This monster was never more one than any man, and I am the last alive." Talowo paused, allowing Vaesyr to speak.

"A dragon… there is but one place in the known world to conceal one."

"I name this place another Doom, colder and more drawn out. But rightly it is known as the Land of Always Winter. I send this message to a pitying heart, one who will know the pain in the noble beast's eyes when I allowed her to sleep in a depression and the death in white to suffuse the void, burying a proud dragon for the ages to come."

-Ayrmidon, Lord of the Last Hold

"We must depart at first light." Vaesyr turned and walked off, bidding all ready themselves for the voyage. Ghazdan, a Ghiscari slave something of an equal age to Talowo, spoke quietly from behind him.

"Don't you see…this is it. We're going to the Sunset Kingdoms." The boy's hair was thick and wiry, at all hours better shaven off. Essosi vary, but all are equally impious. Such hair was no way to show love of any gods but those of ugliness.

"We shall see the sun set for the last time, brother." the Summer Islander responded. He had little and less desire to go to Westeros and the Land of Always Winter. The whole continent is winter all the time, how am I to know when we reach the right place? "The Valyrian wants a dragon and will die before giving up this quest."

"You think there is not truly one?"

"It makes no matter, as they say across the sea. I've been listening." I've always been listening. "They want to smelt Valyrian weapons. New ones, worse than any have seen."

"It will be the worse for us. I have not heard aught a word of this land…there will be no return."

"We have no choice. Jaloqo has already expressed desire to scour the northwest land. His heart did not beat between the time he heard of a "Horn of Joramun". There are creatures, unknown for the greater part, they call them the children of the forest." Westerosi know nothing of them and treat them with wonder, us with belittling words. "It is the belief of Jaloqo that they would know of the secrets of magic." Ghazdan, usually unreliable, was of small counsel. He suggested that they learn more of the new land, how better to survive, how better to escape. To Talowo, learning, all of it, had been moons wasted. How carefully he listened, how much he read made no matter. He was yet a slave, and a slave he would remain until death, which was soon.

"Might be we can listen to the masters- they might be preparing." All I ever do is listen, thought the boy with not a hair on his body and skin sable like ink. All the same, he accompanied the Ghiscari, finding the tent of their overseer and master.

"The Horn was a deadly weapon, but it is not a weapon that secures a man's crown. The Swords cause the necessary dissent in the Seven Kingdoms, but their work will scarce be aided by a new weapon that would make a target of a single man."

"Of course, Vaesyr." they heard Jaloqo say, low as a whisper. Vaesyr came into view, long white hair flowing and no beard obstructing the face of purple eyes. Men of the Sunset Kingdoms may mistake him for a Targaryen, as the man himself had confessed, but his blood was Valyrian and pure.

"If anything, powerful weapons would only be used against my hold." Vaesyr studied a map, eyes visibly tracing the distance from Valyria to the Land of Always Winter. "No, I have a greater design for the steel's fate." From his sleeve the lost lord produced a scarlet tube, closed on both ends save a second tube on one a hair's breadth wide. The other end was closed with a removable cap of the same bright stone. "This I found on the first hour the company arrived, some three fortnights past. A man can tell the craftsman left it unfinished, and this missive was inside." While talking, the Valyrian produced a small roll of parchment, handing it to his unlettered subordinate. "The words, on the greater part, make no matter." As though he felt an urge to comment on the alien letters, Jaloqo spoke.

"The writing… it is well preserved, bold, far from fading."

"Well to my liking, I found. There was no need for a slave. The note requests the addition of Valyrian steel, like as not forming the active part of this machination." He paused, staring at the small device. "Even I draw little of what this could be."

"None could know." Jaloqo added.

"I was in asperity there would be one who would. No matter. Valyrian steel is forged using magic, and must be inherently magical. I know not what the red stone is, but the joining of the two likely produces the intended result."

"May I, my lord, inquire-"

"Are you familiar with prophecy?" The unlettered man stared.

"I have, on the occasion, heard-"

"Never mind, it makes no matter. I read one about the Doom, from the day my family left the freehold for the Stepstones, where we lived for generations." He cleared his throat.

"Come to pass, it will, as surely as the death of the hold, a life anew from the loins and the will and the courage of a single man. Let the women prepare their wombs."

"At once, the finest courtesans from the finest-"

"No." Jaloqo was silenced. "The prophecy leaves me no time."

"A myriad of apologies, lord."

"Have you a modicum of an idea where this portent was discovered?"

"Only you know."

"_Garnet of Fire._ Naught more than a small text with a few words of the future, but it contained rather interesting words about the joint magic of Valyrian steel with the titular component."

"The passage, you suggest, requires the use of this instrument along with Valyrian steel."

"Yes." The tent was silent for hundreds of Talowo's rapid heartbeats. He backed away slowly and quietly as Vaesyr moved to dismiss the overseer. The Ghiscari boy grabbed a wooden bucket, pretending to fulfill some sort of task, letting all see and forget his presence entirely. If Ghazdan has any skill, thought Talowo, as he disappeared, hiding behind a nearby tent, it is pretending.

"What are you doing here?!" Jaloqo shouted before either of them saw him suddenly emerge from the tent.

"If it please-"

"Have you no respect for the lord's secrecy? Show deference-"

"-Well, fine, when that hag-haired Lysene cunt asks you where her bath is-"

"-Go, fool boy- and tell none I delayed you." Ghazdan smirked with the appropriate amount of pride for getting the better of the overseer, but not one of a boy who had pulled off a lie. He wastes his talent, that boy. He could be a mummer.

But it was not Talowo's job to think.


	7. Astaron 4

ASTARON

Jikkor rode hard. Having sent Storm to Seagard on foot, Astaron alternated between the horses of the two knights, filling them in in a shout as the galloping drowned out all other sounds.

"Tell us the plan." The man spoke directly.

"Storm's set out for reinforcements. Straachan will get there first, even if we set a grueling pace. He's a woman and three maids with him."

"What are we doing?" It was more of an order for information.

"There's little and less chance we'll arrive first and claim victory. We're two and one part against eight." If there are hells, we'll see no worse than these at least.

"Ser Orrod is a seasoned killer. Once a sellsword, that man, until the leech lord decided he needed Orrod's services more than his enemies." Quickly the maester stole a glance at the other man, a silent one of slight frame, a long bow and steel long arrows on his back. The muscles on his fingers dexter told all men with eyes his skill would only be doubted by the soon dead.

Astaron's tin link of geography was put to the test. It was commonly known among cartographers that maps must always be updated. Castles were razed or renamed, villages abandoned, even on the occasion, the learned mind had to adjust the charts on the account of a river being purposefully rerouted. While Astaron's independent field of study had been underground channels, which by his observation appeared to be created by rain suffusing porous earth. Where previously men had thought wells were the results of diverted springs, or, more extremely, the hidden reality that the sea occupied a huge open space beneath the continents, the maester's learning of the bottoms of dry wells indicated that water flowed through porous rock, and was drinkable if not too close to the sea.

Here, nothing of what he had learned helped at all. He struggled with outdated maps of the Neck, none of them as broad as what he had studied.

"This is absurd. There are no visible alternate routes. We have to continue ahorse, however it taxes our water." The mares were always drinking, and they had to be attended with priority. His thoughts turned to the footpad, finding no rational reason to blame the sorrel coursers. Bloody cunt thinking he can cheat us, Astaron thought. Rather than remind himself of his own remittances, it indulged his sense of pride when he found a man to hate, and naught could convince him otherwise.

"Might be we can stay on the inside."

"There are like as not brigands hiding in the mountains." It was dawn of five days since the company had left the forest of the Neck, and Astaron began to wonder whether or not they were in the South. Running parallel to their path were Ironman's bay and the end of the Blue Fork. Men had said the Reach was the true South, and that Dorne was a sign a man had gone too far looking. Of course, the Vale was another matter, all the bastards were Stone and the Storms and the Flowers were a different flavor of heathen bastardry. Astaron internally acknowledged the irony that for all the isolation and distance the northron lords put on themselves, they did not divide even when times were fair. Astaron himself had been no bastard, he once claimed noble origin at the Citadel, whereupon the other acolytes laughed and averred he would never make a maester of himself if there were gold in the family. The truth of it was that he was a Braavosi merchant's son to a common girl, whether his father was highborn he could not say, his mother had raised him until his tenth nameday, when he sought apprenticeship with the Citadel.

As the Sunset Sea swallowed the light of the world, Ser Orrod raised a hand, halting the horses.

"What is it?"

"I need light to kill. We must wait for the rise."

"Snow, there are three maids and a woman. If the gods are kind, there will be four women when we arrive. If cruel, there will be four corpses." His horse's hooves shifted in the mud.

"Five. They have a knight." The matter halted with the approach of a horseman bearing a torch.

"Come no farther if you wish to see the sun again. My men have suffered enough attacks, but they can suffer a thousand more. Would that you simply gave up this charade."

"What charade?"

"A scout came back an hour ago telling tales of some hedge knight with cunts on a horse-" Jikkor drew his sword, slashing immediately, and managed to mangle the man's upper arm. He drew back, about to scream when an arrow pierced his skull. Orrod simply tore his missile free once the three men had checked for watchers. He gave a nod toward Jikkor, acknowledging something Astaron could not perceive. They supplanted his beast and traps onto Astaron, who accepted the stallion gladly, but could not fill the armor, leather though it was. Unseen as of yet, the party proceeded, Astaron nocking an arrow onto the horseman's bowstring as the ruins of Oldstones came into full view. Even as a ruin, the fortress was easily defended. They neared silently, keeping in the shadows before the maester fired the first shot, a failed attempt on a sentry. He cursed silently as he nocked a second shot, but the alarm was raised. From the window, no more than a hole in what remained of a wall, an archer let loose some bolt Jikkor outrode as he came to another target, out of the scholar's sight. For his own part, he managed to stick a man in the belly, while a quarrel grazed his leg. The mount unharmed, he bade it gallop, if slowly, to the wall where a Myrish man emerged from behind a corner, swinging wide with an axe.

"Cunt!" Astaron swore as the man struck him with a free hand and stuck the enemy's arm with his dagger before he could bring up the axe. It earned him another blow, this one nearly crushing his windpipe. Forcing his dagger deeper, he kicked the horse and jerked on the Essosi's arm, pulling him out of the saddle and onto the ground, freeing his own knife from the saddle as he got to his feet. Seven save me. The blade found lodged into the beast's rump, throwing it into a panic, bucking wildly. The scholar jumped free, but landed on his shoulder all the same. As the man approached him, all the prayers he had ever heard rushed through his mind, repeating with alacrity. He fell over before raising his knife; an arrow had pierced his neck.

"Where's Jikkor?" Astaron shouted after the knight.

"He took three down with him. He died a man's death."

"What happened?"

"He met a better swordsman, that man met an arrowhead. It makes no matter."

"Is there anyone left?"

"One man and a confused kitten."

"Did aught a man escape?"

"It makes no matter. This friend of yours never showed up." As horse and Ser Orrod came slowly emerged from shadow, an expression of distrust played across the man's face. "Tell me, maester. Did you ever once _doubt_ that this man told yours the truth?"

"Well, yes, and I regret it now, but I had reason-"

"As do I."

"I fear I do not-"

"You lied to us. This was a trap. First you beguile Jikkor, a hero. Then, you abstain from armor. The archers would expect you not to wear any and after all, you're among friends."

"You're mistaken-"

"I was mistaken once. You fail to kill the sentry, and only wound the other man-"

"I'm no archer-" the knight did not wait for him to finish.

"I saved your life. The gods demand that a man hear his dishonor before death."

"Please- Jikkor was a true knight." Astaron spread his hands wide, struggling to his feet in the mud from a recent rain.

"I once was a man like you. But when I trusted a man, he killed my mother." Astaron's anger exploded, unable to restrain himself, he shouted.

"You have naught experience with trust! I told the girls Straachan was a brigand when I first saw him! I thought him a fool for believing a whore!" Orrod struck him with the end of his bow, blackness and bright lights suffusing his field of vision. He landed in the mud.

"Fie." The knight spat. "You are naught, a waste of an arrow." Blackness claimed all.

When Astaron roused, the man was gone. A prodigious hole had been dug. Father above, how many are dead? The maester's platinum link of mathematics was hardly needed to know there were nine bodies uncaringly tossed in the pit, Ser Jikkor's on top, armor gleaming in the morning sun. You were a knight and a northman to the end, Jikkor. The thought came unbidden, Astaron knew not from whence.

An hour later, he had seen to his own wounds, nothing serious, but each would take months to repair. The unbent elder calling himself Jaehaerys Storm led a small troop of three men at arms, like as not the most that would believe his tale.

"Ser Orrod took only some of the gold. I've no idea why he left so much."

"How much is there?"

"Eighty score or near as much as makes no matter, dragons all. There's a note to us in some runic I can't interpret." Jaehaerys handed it to a warrior after looking at it with confusion.

"Like as not, the only script he can write."

"It reads-" a horseman began "-There are coins here for the men your friend will beguile." Taking a long look at both of them, the armed men each filled a purse, but had no means of carrying all the gold. Even light, it would be a burden on any horse. Astaron had looked about the ruins, finding that there were but two horses, Orrod likely having taken the ones that had not run off.

It was not long before the riders had left, overpaid for their service where Jikkor had paid with his life. Astaron and Storm saddled a dapple grey and roan, climbing on with what gold they could carry, keeping it in separate leather purses along with stags from the dead men. He would follow the Blue Fork to Fairmarket, what with Emmon Frey likely still holding Riverrun, to their knowledge. Neither had voiced the plan to take Coliete and Barta to the town, but Straachan might have had the idea on his own. Storm would simply await the arrival of the warrior at Oldstones, whether he liked the ghosts or no.

"Why in the seven hells did we think we were taking long anyway?" The maester asked himself as he rode the gelding adjacent to the river, flowing proudly as if to spite the freezing wind. The skies would soon return to snowing, he told himself. But then, if it snows rather than rains, as it probably will for the next few years, he thought to himself, how will the water seep into the ground? In many places, water had evacuated the underground, mostly for use of wells, and there came about a cavity below the surface.

It did naught to think on wells at a time like this, though. He had not even cogitated on a matter in which he could not find Straachan, and even thinking on it, he was unsure. Why would Astaron have gone on to Fairmarket anyway? The only way about it was that he had avoided the ruined fortress, somehow having arrived before the maester and knights. No, the man had not arrived, he was more the fool for considering the happening, and should he not see the girls and the knight and the woman, as he expected, he would round and return to Oldstones.

But as he arrived, it was an entirely different man to greet him than expected. Damon Vypren, a vaguely Braavosi knight with clear Frey blood what with his black hair introduced himself.

"My father was hunting a band of brigands around here." He said. "I thought I'd disappoint, that all men who had gone to Oldstones had gone away. But here you are, back with the mount over which you killed Catelyn Blackwood, and like as not the dragons you looted. Come with me."


	8. Myren-Green Fork

MYREN

The ship had swiftly run the Green Fork for days. A raven would have arrived in Duskendale about the findings in Valyria, but it would be long before the news would reach them, if it did. She estimated that the gold they had found was not one part in a century of what they would.

"Any news from Harrenhal? Jonalyn knows naught of out location, sending ravens would be imprudent-"

"You know what the answer is. I only sent what I dared, and if there were a serious need for expanding our knowledge, Catelyn knows how to find you." It was true, or near. Catelyn was a daughter of some Blackwood, a woman Myren hardly met, but to her knowledge made a man of her companion. Brown Courser, he went, his true name unknown. He had just finished retelling the same tale to a different crewmember, the one with the sausage man and woodswitch. Of course, they had parted ways with the meat merchant, and the woodswitch had died, so the only man who could tell it true was Denys Darklyn himself.

"I was just asking." You are always just asking. Myren had heard his fool's tale half a hundred times, and she tired of it on the first. There was no way it were true, it was just a man's cocksure nature letting all men know he was important. Of course, rising from the position of a handmaid of the Freys had been an endeavor throughout which she portrayed herself well, but the thought was subdued in her mind. There would be naught of this humility business while she breathed, no, men were cocksure and she was objective and forthright.

It was midday before the man himself rose. Denys Darklyn, or whatever his name was in truth, rose as he pleased and with whomever he pleased. It was this confidence that preserved his power in a cycle. Men looked at him and saw a man who did as he willed. Men saw him as powerful, and he was on account of every other man's belief. Were he stranded in the Stepstones, a man would see him with no trappings of power. Were he visiting King's Landing, where men had true power, a man would see him as another Sword Sable, and nothing more. And so, here he was, far from any who could say otherwise and surrounded by those who confirmed one another.

"Did I tell you I was once a friend to Varys the Spider?" their first conversation began. He had been visiting the Twins, and he had seen it in her eyes. A desire for power burned brightly for him with eyes to see it.

"No, m'lord. Your occupation never arose during the feast."

"It wouldn't have. There's no man alive, save he, to know of it. I was his little bird, as he calls one now. I remember the day he first came to Westeros. Do you have an interest in power?"

"Yes." There could be no hiding it.

"Queens and princesses are puppets in a mummer's show. Information is power. Belief is power. Varys said something similar to me once. I was his favorite." Their eyes locked and her employment was ensured.

Denys Darklyn strode across the death, greedily swallowing some Myrish purple wine meant to be sipped. Myren turned her eyes to the river ahead in disgust. If he could not obey the customs of the trappings, he would ever be an old sword in a king's clothing. It was a boy's pride that made him the way he was, anathema to Myren, a mere whisperer of the Swords, who believed if it were that he be proud, it would be with a man's pride, or better, a woman's. For a man's pride relied on his ability to lay, and a woman's in her ability not to lay, and in a realm full of mewling babes, one was worth more than the other. They would call her incapable, they would say she loves women, but it would all be for naught, for she would have her pride.

"I see a bird." Brown Courser, spurned, had taken to watching for birds in some childish attempt to prove his use. At least he truly was of use, if, of course it were indeed a raven.

"That is no raven, but a crow." Myren replied equally loudly. It would not do to be outdone.

"If it were a crow, it's the largest I've seen." The animal neared and grew in sight. The sellsword had seen many archers from a distance, his life depended on it with the passing hour, that was all it was.

"A crow, I have seen all manner of ravens, even the white." It spread its wings fully as it reached the bow, slowing as it rested on the figurehead. It cawed loudly, and she retrieved the message from its feet. It was a small raven, I might have been right.

"What message has this bird brought?" Myren had little and less idea and how to respond. It had been established that only in the case of an emergency would a raven arrive.

"Harrenhal writes with dark words." She said as she unrolled the letter, reading it for herself first. It was customary to send a raven for such a task. "Catelyn is dead." Brown Courser cursed the gods as he made his way off to the prow. "There's some dignitary's son, Damon Vypren."

"_Ser_ Damon Vypren." Added a deckhand.

"His father's case was to seek out a band of brigands in the Riverlands. Damon is supposed to look for Blackwood's killer." She stored the letter in a hidden pocket in the bodice of her dress, green with a diaphanous skirt overlaying. "Do you remember the looted dragons from Raventree?" Her question was met with looks of uncertainty. Of course. "Bracken's men seized a chest from the fortress as the siege was held. Supposedly they attempted to hide it in the ruins of Oldstones and were killed over it, and there had been a bloodbath before Catelyn dispatched a Sword by the name of Darke to appropriate the gold and return with it to Harrenhal, failing that, to secure it until she could arrive with a discreet cart." Darklyn thought over it, responding while gazing over the edge at the water and the Riverlands.

"There can only be one explanation." A bold claim. "Catelyn left Harrenhal. There, she is unknown, her father made sure of that. Like as not she went after the chest and was killed on the way."

"Why kill her though? She would have been in disguise."

"To some men, it makes no matter who she is. She might have had the gold, but I have misgivings. If the dragons were with her, the Swords would be as well. No band would dare approach, much less near, even though their identity would be unknown.

"Another took the gold then, and killed her upon her approach."

"No. She had some sense in her head. She would have rounded if she saw anyone other than the Swords Sable. Even at a distance, she would know if Darke were there. No, I fear he's in one of the bad hells too." Myren had not thought of him as a devout man. More like than not, he was another of those who chose the faith to condemn. Of course, she liked to condemn as well, but that was permissible as long as she used no faith to such an end.

"If Darke is dead, we hunt a band of proficient killers. They must needs be no fewer than five in number." Darke Waters was a childkiller, but he was strong and had a band eight strong. Perhaps the same could be said of all men, whose power would be useful in responsible hands.

"If one thing is certain, this is it." He hesitated only a moment, unrolling a map from a hidden pocket in his raiment from which she had not seen him draw it. "Oldstones is…a day abest from Fairmarket at best. We have no word that the dragons are truly gone, only a suspicion as to that being some possible cause for Catelyn to have left Harrenhal."

"If not for the dragons, why?"

"Why not, might be. Catelyn is not supposed to be. That alone is reason for her to die." Myren looked over her shoulder at the crew and swords, noticing that not a man of them inclined an ear. They know their place.

"Catelyn may have died for a separate cause." She paused, reasonably considering the possibilities. "We know not how long she waited before setting out."

"You speak the truth. The coin could have been carried off days before she died, but I say it also still might be there."

"It makes no matter." Myren decided. "We must send someone for the dragons, and someone to Harrenhal."

"Harrenhal? Wherefore?"

"The letter has no name, but someone sent it to us with our raven at the fort. I intend to know how this letter came to us. This may be an elaborate trap."

"Not so like. The bird would know how to find us, but not that we were out here. Some servant or another just as like knew of our communication well enough not to pen a name onto the letter." The matter was done, and with that, the each saw little of another for the duration of the day and night.

Meryn woke to shouting, some hours before dawn. She threw an overcoat over a gown, slipping a dirk into her sleeve while verily leaping out of the cabin and onto the deck. A man in full armor on a horse, bay, dismounted onto the deck. Unable to parse the madness, Myren continued to observe, hoping that reality would reconcile itself with her mind. Onto the deck, the armored man lightly placed a child, bound so completely with such a length of rope that its age and sex were uncertain. He tore off his helmet, hair and face dripping with sweat.

"He was a fair fighter-better rider." He began. "But my mount was well rested, his like as not running its legs off for days."

"Calm down, bastard." A ship hand said, staying him with a calloused hand. "You were a scout, you say?"

"The Swords at Oldstones sent me north alone. Not a day passes 'fore I run into some whorish looking cunt on a courser. Took her in the heart with a rusted bolt. The man got my knee with a sword, but I pressed and grabbed the maid by the hair. Might be there was another like her, might be two."

"-But you killed the man."

"No, he's been trained- only cut his neck, by the gods the man was fast."

"A man can't live with an honest cut in his neck." Darke only laughed.

"I do naught honestly, but it makes no matter- I was away in a score of heartbeats." There were a few grunted words of approval, but Myren had a question.

"What, _may I ask,_ was the point in taking the girl?" She prepared to cringe at the expected response.

"My pursuer was a knight, not a man who'd seen him would otherwise call." Waters responded. "And a knight would chase after, sooner kill a horse than let harm come to a maid." Denys chuckled and clapped the man on the shoulder.

"And what he didn't know was your mount was rested and well fed." Myren was not satiated.

"Who is she? Wherefore did she accompany a knight? Some daughter of-"

"We know nothing." Well, that much is clear.

"We take her to Harrenhal. There is no better place to us where we can secure her." Darklyn nodded, acknowledging that it was unwise to rule out the possibility that the child was highborn. The men returned to their work or sleep until it was she and Darke on board.

"When did you recognize me?"

"When you felt the need to wipe of your fool's visage." She paused, but curiosity overcame her.

"The boat never stopped."

"I came to a mostly destroyed bridge as I leveled with the ship -full gallop. I chanced a jump." Of course you did, cocksure knave. Myren returned to sleep angrier than before.


	9. Astaron 5

ASTARON

It was dark inside the Inn of the Kneeling Man. Damon Vypren pulled the black bag off Astaron's face, shoved the maester to his knees, and opened the door for an older man in a black feathered cloak, his beard short and graying, in the light of the lantern on the floor, he was an intimidating man.

"My name is Tytos Blackwood. No man was to know aught of Catelyn. Her body was discovered one and thirty hours ago. Do you deny your complicity?"

"Who in the seven hells-" Blackwood's fist cracked against Astaron's skull.

"My daughter was invisible from birth, fated to a life of secrecy. She has been my eyes at Harrenhal."

"She knew of the Swords." The maester could fain resist saying so, he had not spoken for hours. Had the bastard not kept me blinded, might be I would have known how long.

But even his ignorance of the path could not hide from him where he was. As an acolyte, he had taken a study of Fairmarket and its economy and the old master who had accompanied him imparted great wisdom in this very establishment.

"Astaron, should your studies ever take you to the link of Valyrian steel, I advise you turn your attention elsewhere. There is little and less to be gained from such a field." He had said.

"And you know of them as well." The riverlord asserted, bringing him back into reality.

"Heresay. A few words. But you're looking for brigands, not some man's conspiracy." In a secret interrogation, I must needs speak. Keeping silent will kill me.

"You knew the Swords were in Harrenhal."

"Everyone's in Harrenhal. It's not a small castle." Astaron did his due to sound exasperated.

"Where were you when she was killed?"

"Naught of this but reached me. Might be I was around Hag's mire."

"Due where?"

"King's Landing, maesters can always find-"

"Do you have any information to provide?" I can't slip up now. They're testing me.

"Only my most sincere condolences for a man who would go to such lengths for the memory of his daughter come to mind, Lord Blackwood." Tytos Blackwood crouched down and retained a pointed glare for what Astaron thought to be a moon's turn.

"We have found the most knowledgeable man who knows nothing." He rose, turning to leave. "Damon, your judgment was sound, but this man had nothing to do with Catelyn's death." As he walked out, the knight moved to free Astaron from bonds, but stopped as soon as the door closed. A balding man in lordly armor, with a sigil of a rearing stallion, gules, on a field, gold, rose from the bar.

"What's-"

"Maester, meet Lord Jonos Bracken. I invited him thus that he should hear confirmation that Catelyn is truly dead, and the possibility of capture beyond him."

"Having heard, what is his business now?" Letting me go?

"His part in our gamble is to assist me in finding the true killer." Best get to looking. You haven't found him. "You have heard all that we have. Is the master any more guilty to you?"

"Questions remain to me. How does a lone master venturing to King's Landing take an indirect route through the Riverlands, alone at that?" Damon was suddenly less certain of Astaron's innocence.

"I had originally set on Winterfell, yet to be disabused of its destruction. There was a party who chose to see me there."

"What of this party? Were they warriors? Merchants?"

"A fool. I was like as not to die before arriving."

"How long are you from Oldtown?"

"A moon's turn or near as much as makes no matter." Bracken stared. He knows naught of my intentions, but there is little and less reason to say that I have nefarious purposes and killed Catelyn Blackwood. The lord of Stone Hedge strode across the room in a feigned contemplative interest.

"The nature of the death of Blackwood's daughter does not concern me." he decided. Excellent. Now why don't you let me out of here and be on my merry way? "What does concern me-"He turned to face Astaron, who had risen from his kneeling position. "-is the gold. You say you passed Hag's Mire."

"I do."

"Wherefore? Was it simply on the way?" Bracken's voice betrayed his words.

"There is naught other explanation." Mother have mercy.

"Naught save one. You know about what happened to the gold, and you were seeking it."

"Of course I heard of the gold, no man can pass through without such words, but I dismissed them as idle rumor! On the seven, I have no cause to lie."

"A scout of mine reports the gold taken not an hour before you were."

"He reported it then or it was taken then?"

"What remains to be seen is the wherefore." But these are other questions for other days. I am an occupied lord, and I must abest." He left without a word. Damon Vypren faded into the lantern's light from the shadows of the inn.

"Officially, I am to hold you." Of course you are, I'm sure that cunt will thank you for it. "In reality, I have neither the means nor desire to feed and keep you."

"I request a letter. I must needs not be recaptured." Damon exhaled slowly, considering.

"It is impossible." The knight like the lords before him began to pace slowly across the room. "-and in equal part unnecessary." I'd like to see this one explained. "If the Lord of Light is with you, you need not fear the terrors of the night. There are hundreds of carts that go into King's Landing every day. A man could get to the Red Fort without the slightest suspicion."

"Ser, you are too generous, I-"

"-must needs be loaded onto a cart as soon as possible, before the lords return." There was no way of protest. Astaron could only pray that Damon would not follow. Escape would be difficult, but possible, at the Inn of the Kneeling Man, for they were yet north of most of the Riverlands, but turning back on foot having passed Stone Hedge and Raventree would be too quixotic to consider.

As fortune would have it, Ser Damon did not follow, but notified the driver of the cart, some Dornishman missing a hand, that he would receive additional returns if he brought the maester safely to the city. As such, when Vypren rode off, Astaron began to reason with his transporter.

"Neither of us wishes me to reach King's Landing."

"Ah, but I do not think so."

"Do you want me to report your thievery to the king?"

"Thievery- I lost my hand as a boy- I had greyscale."

"A missing hand is enough for the king's justice to mark a thief."

"Suppose I take you as contraband into the city, and then take you out all the same."

"Suppose you let me go directly."

"You don't know where to go. Damon or one of the lords will find you." The fool will not accept anything but payment.

"Suppose you take me north and I throw in a few dragons." This gave him pause.

"How many do you have?" he asked, eyebrows raising.

"A hundred or near as much as makes no matter. I suspect Damon's taken his fee from my saddlebags, but my horse is tied outside the bar." He had not considered the horse the entire time he had been captured, perhaps because he did not own it, perhaps because he had been captured.

"I do not believe you. The knight was generous to free you, and a man can only have dishonest motives not to appear before a king. I am a thief, but I am an honest one. I accepted my punishment." And I should accept mine, is that it? But the Dornishman would not continue.

They were to take the River Road until it ended at the Kingsroad, then turn south. Astaron's ideas of escape escaped him after the first night, exhausted, he went to sleep, missing his final opportunity to break and run north. The lords would be back at the Inn, and he had little resources without his horse, blissfully ignorant of the gold on its back. The thought of the gold's rightful owner, Bracken, discovering beast and dragon gave him no pleasure.

Beyond the thought of escape, he was further beyond killing the man. He was a craven any day of the moon's turn, and did not delude himself to think some native sense of right would keep him from doing so, but would be willing to call fear nobility if any maiden asked. The thought of threatening the Dornishman with the Black Dagger entered his mind, but either he was fool enough to fight or clever enough to see an empty threat and turn it aside.

On the third day he woke with the sun to the west and decided lack of activity gave way to sleep. The wheeler was deaf to appeals, but was willing to allow him to walk through the wood about Harrenhal when they reached that point. As it would not be for days, the man offered a Dornish tea, some aid to sleep for days. Astaron would not need to eat, could easily be mistaken for a dead man, and was like as not to pass as some honored friend of his transporter. The plan was attractive, but the maester usually decried unknown confections, his silver link had always done him well.

"What goes into it? I must needs have some idea." As bizarre as the suggestion sounded, it was possible the Dornishman was trying to kill him, never have to feed him, never hear his expressions of displeasure, and yet receive the same bounty.

"It is none other than mooned lamb's wool and barley potion. In Dorne they say 'confectionery for the sensual use of the nonconsensual'. Astaron had little trouble believing the phrase came from the far south, it was as uselessly elaborate as it was lewd. He wondered oft if Mereen and the region were competing in those pursuits, from what he knew of both.

"How long?" The Dornishman chuckled. What are you, two and ten?

"If you are cautious, my friend, your question is of little use. Only heartbeats would it take to kill you in your sleep, and more time is more the time passed unnoticed for you." He chuckled again. "Men say we are the cravens."

"My concern was not fear for my life, but the getting around the riverlords. Will this obfuscated concoction have me asleep to rise again, or dead to rise again in revenge?"

"The Brackens and the Blackwoods search, but not thoroughly as a man might for a lost lover." It was settled, and without giving himself time to reconsider, he drank. The taste was akin to a thin grapevine tea, not entirely unpleasant. He did not believe he had fallen asleep immediately, but when he saw a horseman on the lake, the difference from the vision and reality became clear. Astaron found himself propelled to the horseman, before him in heartbeats as the scene shifted. This was no true dream, for his mind was working perfectly.

"Who is he that comes to me?" the rider asked as though approach meant desire of death.

"Astaron comes unwillingly."

"Then fate has ordained as much." The maester had never ascribed aught to fate, to him it had always been men who decided theirs.

"Are you some minion of the red king-the one who shouted on and on about naught understandable?" He showed me a wrong to set aright, but I would have preferred not to see such a thing.

"Fie." He rode his armored horse to the water's edge. "I am no man's minion, even the Red Death kills not near so much men as I."

"What is your name?"

"I am the oldest of the First Men. My legacy is one of conquest and war."

"The High King was Garth Greenhand…"

"…and I am his father, he who burned the weirwood trees, gods and all." The somber man mounted hi s horse and the animal reared dexter, galloping off into the moonlight.


	10. Talowo 2

TALOWO

The letter to Catelyn Blackwood had been completed days ago, but no raven could find his way through the fog and smoke around the ruin of Valyria. As such, Talowo had waited until the ship, _Bloodflow_ had reached the half course to Volantis before setting the bird on its way. The raven flew through the clear sky, delivering a message it did not understand. If any among us is a slave, the bird is.

Vaesyr gazed upon the Summer Sea, despite the return of winter in other lands, it was warm and fair, the sun creating a shining surface on the waves. It was clear that the Valyrian knew he would not see such an expanse for years, and he was no man to waste an opportunity. In all fairness, there was naught vile to say or think of Vaesyr. He was a cruel man, but no wars are won by the kind, the Westerosi would see to that. He loved his gold and treasures, but what man did not? Talowo had been developing a thought over the years, after wise words from an old man in Tall Trees during his boyhood. If men have the same sins, how may one man presume to look upon another unfairly, or have others do the same?

"Talowo." The man said. Is he addressing me?

"Master?" The Westerosi love their titles, and Valyrians are no different. Perhaps in the same way, it should not surprise him that Vaesyr addressed him by his name. He had asked it of Joloqo shortly before killing him for pocketing gold and appointing the Summer Islander, as he had originally been named, the new aide, as the job was called.

"We can expect a letter weeks from now. It is time you knew that the Swords have needed gold, and more imperatively of late."

"All men need gold, for one matter or one like."

"I had received word Bracken's men have lost track of gold, and like as not, the Swords have it." Who is Bracken? How much gold?

"Then what is of consequence, my lord?"

"There are Braavosi merchants in every city, Volantis will be no exception. As I command no great army apart from Swords across the sea, if we are to live, we live by concealing our treasures. A recent discovery means there will be no need to expose the amount of gold we have discovered, merely withdrawing from the Iron Bank will be sufficient for our voyage to the North."

"How do you know the gold will be there?"

"All gold discovered in the Neck goes through Catelyn Blackwood. Not will she establish a record for us among the Braavosi, she would entrust any great amount of coin to them. I know her nature." The master left the sentiment at that, leaving Talowo to wander to the prow, hoping to catch the setting sun.

With morning came a rise from the deck. A single, drawn out blast indicated another ship passing, possibly friend, possibly ironmen. Talowo threw on a slave's shift out of habit and rushed to the surface, finding a man with black hair and a long black beard facing Vaesyr. His doublet, as the slave understood it to be called, was colored with an odd assortment of azure and white with moons and stripes. The man bore a stern expression as those armed on his own ship, prepared to swing across at any moment. Vaesyr did not allow him to speak first.

"Harclay. Your arms are as familiar as your armaments." He stated simply, gesturing to the men on the other boat, some of whom had axes drawn. "But we are civilized men, and we can resolve our conflict without bloodshed." Harclay scowled.

"A man who says so does because he is weak." Vaesyr did not deny it. "And in the North, bloodshed is equally civilized as lies are." In the pause, Talowo approached slowly to his master's side.

"What business do you have on _Bloodflow_, honorable lord?" Vaesyr was nothing if not direct, as all Westerosi seemed to aspire. They have no appreciation for dodging and complicating, none at all, the boy thought. But then, at times the Essosi speak plainly, but only when among friends.

"The moon sees every man. I know where you are bound, and I have little reason to explain."

"You killed the bird." Talowo said on native instinct. The ghost of a smile tugged at the edge of Harclay's lips.

"Good. Do you know why?"

"It was not your intent to stop Vaesyr. You don't even know his name." At this, a man from behind the Northron man drew his sword, but Harclay quieted his concerns with a glare.

"Go on."

"You were looking for someone else. I know naught of whether you have been to Volantis or not, but if you had, there was no word. An archer brought down the raven in search of information."

"Has this one been learned?" The question was directed at the Valyrian.

"Perhaps. It is naught to us when conscripting."

"It makes no matter. But, now it is my turn, according to the laws of hospitality. What business do you have in the North?"

"I aim not for the North, but the land beyond."

"Ah, but there are even fewer reasons for such a course."

"There are rumors of a true dragon to be buried. We intend to study the body." You mean you intend to see if it lives. There may be some Essos in you yet.

Harclay simply laughed, not answering any sort of question.

"It would be respectable of you, lord, to set us on our way. There is nothing to be gained in harassing sailors." Harclay laughed again.

"Do you take me for stupid or really stupid? If I were the man to let you pass and the North suffers for it, my honor would not exist!" The last words came out with a specific acerbity. "There are better lies than that." He paced about in circles, surveying each crewmember and slave and occasional fighter. "Might be you were spreading the fire of the Lord of Light." He turned to Vaesyr. "Might be you came with slaves of all manners to sell to the Skagosi." He faced Talowo, crouching. "Might be you wish to apply your services to the King in the North." The men on the boat had reached a dead stillness but for the motion of the waves. "Give me a damned good reason I shouldn't order a boarding."

"I can think of one." Ghazdan held a girl against his chest with a knife to her throat. Confusion erupted as the Ghiscari was shoved down the stairs with his captive. Talowo had never seen her in his life, and had little and less of an idea of who she was and how Ghazdan had gotten hold of her. Even her likeness was alien to him…until he turned back to Harclay, who was shouting at Vaesyr.

"What is the meaning of this?! I demand to know-"

"The high seas are no safe place for girls."

"With the men out here, it was safer than the North-"

"But you separated them from her, didn't you? The Ghiscari was supposed to be good, the old overseer told me as much, but I see no way he could have _climbed _aboard your ship from the waves_, broken _through a portcullis_, _and_ captured _the girl_._"

"You know men."

"And I know fathers. You sicken me, you small man who would fain appoint a guard all for the sake of her innocence."

"Return her, and you will be allowed to leave alive."

"I misbelieve you."

"There is naught chance of escape."

"There is once we get ahead of you."

"How do you mean- setting one man in a boat with Reyne while you get away?"

"That one man is you. Order your men to send a boat for you. We'll put the maid in the boat and send it in the direction of Valyria." As he spoke, a small boat was released by the other ship by hand signal orders from its captain. "You can order your men to attack us or you can swim for the boat. I have no quarrel with you, and I think you a fine father. But these seas are treacherous." The small boat was rowed to the other side of Vaesyr's ship where the girl came out of a portcullis, landing in it. From the fall and her following screams it was clear she was hurt. An archer, some green boy out of the Sunset Kingdoms readied an arrow to kill Reyne Harclay if her father made an unfortunate decision. As they allowed her to drift she screamed for help, Harclay's face erupting with anger. Sharks could be seen from the ship, and it was no surprise, an easy kill was present. Even Vaesyr's men begged for mercy to the maid. Ghazdan, who had caught her under a whispered order from some freedman on the ship stared over its edge, shouting that her wounds needed tending.

"You have made a powerful enemy." Harclay stated sincerely as he sprinted across the deck, grabbing Ghazdan and throwing him overboard. The arrow missed his daughter, as he would have suspected, and he leapt into the waves, killing sharks and swimming for Reyne. Immediately Vaesyr ordered the sails raised and all hands to the oars.

"We can't get the slave in time! We'll lose them in the doldrums!"Vaesyr said as he marched to the prow, a single boarder making it on before _Bloodflow _set off, outpacing Harclay's ship quickly. He quickly drew the Valyrian steel sword, the nameless twin of Nightfall and locked himself in a duel with the man at arms. Talowo had a heartbeat to avoid an arrow flying from the other ship. The chaos continued as in the distance Harclay had heaved himself into the boat and shouted for his ship to pursue. The last he could see of them was that much to his disapproval, the ship refused to leave without him. Those Northmen really are honorable, Talowo thought.

In the days and nights that followed, there were no arrangements for Ghazdan. He was a slave. There were no words to be said. There were no bones to inter. There was no ground in which to inter them. Excuses, Talowo thought. Essosi are good at excuses.

The true reason was that no man knew Ghazdan. In all honesty, he had only been a short time acquainted with Talowo, but he had saved their ship, perhaps their lives. And so, with words having been said, he found himself wondering if the boy would have requested prayer. Unfamiliar with the concept, he considered asking _Bloodflow_'s septa, but remembered Ghazdan would have believed in the old gods of Ghis, the Andal faith would only offend him. In the end he simply decided his passing acquaintance would accept silence.

The freed ship continued north until Volantis, where Talowo woke to the movement of goods onto the shore. Vaesyr was nowhere to be found, perhaps negotiating gold from the extension of the Iron Bank of Braavos. Men talked quietly in taverns, caring nothing for the Summer Islander listening in.

"Is there aught a man who has still to hear of Queen Cersei? She's the most beautiful woman in the world- well, not near as much now, but-"

"The most beautiful woman in the world? You seek Daenerys Targaryen. Last I saw her, I was in Mereen working for Brown Ben Plumm. 'Course, some sodden old knight out of the Sunsets told me I was unfit for duty. Damn him to all seven hells if there's one."

"She has that, but she is persued. Men richer, men stronger, men smarter chase her in equal parts. No man among us has a chance."

"Ah, but that, my old friend, is the beauty of it. We most strongly want the things we have not and will never have." His friends and even Talowo gathered in closely with his gesture. "If a man were to truly have what he wanted, what would he be?" A silence fell over the room. "He would be a man with no purpose, I tell you. And there's naught a man wants more than a purpose."


	11. Astaron 6

ASTARON

In some hidden realm within his mind, he was asleep and on his inevitable way to King's Landing or near. But here the night was ever young and possibilities presented themselves. Across the sea he looked at the city of Mereen through a sewer drain, he could see and hear everything going on, unsure of what was true and what his mind was inventing. An ancient knight whispered into the ear of a powerful dragon, warning her of snakes and scorpions that gathered in their hell. A radiant spear flew at blood, only to be burnt to a cinder by fire. But what really compelled him in was the harpy that gave orders to smaller harpies, wicked warriors that killed in the streets to always leave their mark.

Already his mind subsumed another man's and he looked through the eyes of a man who was a harpy. He caught up with his faction as they slipped out into the streets, the skies dark and the city blind.

"Grazdan, honored Son- we express our joy you could join us. You have the old man on the palisades. There is no need to burn the bones."

"Of course, Faezhar. I shall be away at once and return soon." He heard himself say in some dialect of Valyrian. True to his word, he was away.

He found the target having his bath prepared by slaves as he peered through a window on the roof. Men said there were no slaves since the dragonqueen, but Grazdan knew the world, certainly better than a young girl who knows naught in the ways of war. He had scaled the wall and surveyed the area, all that remained were the sign and the kill. Men imagined the sign was after, but the image took longer to create than the latter.

"The Sons of the Harpy will die when the Gods of Ghis fly away and leave us to die." Grazdan leapt through the window, landing directly in front of the bather. It gave him no pleasure to kill an elder, but it was an elder Mereenese, and that made sufficient difference. His dagger, half again the breadth of the man's neck flashed and his previous concerns made no matter with the satisfying spray of blood that colored his robes. The dead man's scream had woken the grounds, but there was naught a man could do about a killer he could not see. Grazdan disappeared, throwing himself back up the walls and through the broken upper window once more, rolling onto the roof. He set a candle by the sign as he leapt away, the blood harpy glistening in the dim light.

Grazdan disappeared and a white haired man emerged. The year was 252 AC and snow swirled around him. His companions were dead, leaving him alone to venture. Perhaps he should never have proceeded so far abest of the Wall. Perhaps he should have advised shorter rangings into the unknown northern land. He rode around a snowdrift, a single black spike sticking up through the light snow. Memories flooded before his eyes, and there was naught he could do but watch.

"Lord Commander, we urge you to give up this fool's quest."

"My lord, we shall die before we see such a sight. The last one is long dead."

"Bloodraven, this is no way to earn your way into your family again."

"Brynden, we're dying." His brothers were dying and they died, all for some fool's search. He stumbled, freezing to death, into a cave, wing and snow howling outside. Aenys Blackfyre, the man he had killed, forced himself to the surface, appearing before him in the snow.

"Did it work, bastard? Did killing me, who only wanted recognition by my family, put you up aught higher? Or was it all for naught?" The bastard disappeared, leaving him alone with his pain as he crawled in the snow into a cave. It would be mere hours before the horrors north of the Wall made him suffer and die, the gods alone knew what would happen before then.

"Snow!" He turned his head to see that a raven had landed next to him, cawing.

Men had always called me Bloodraven.

Astaron woke.

Attempting to stand, he could see Harrenhal to the left, the Crackclaw to the right.

"How long is it?" He asked of the Dornishman. Like as not he'll be a cunt about it, but if there were aught else I could do, I would have done already and done again.

"I fear you have asked a personal question of me, dear friend. I should like only the finest of the Sand Snakes to know the answer." Oh, excellent, a response as roundabout as it is crass.

"How many days have I been asleep?"

"Oh, some number less than seven and forty, aught more than three."

"Do you know exactly?"

"I may as much as I may not, provided I may suggest I may not."

"By the Seven, answer a damned question!"

"Should I become so much in luck as to stand by the Seven, there will be no questions to answer, but there will be six teats to grab. Oh, for another hand!" Astaron drew the Black Dagger from his robes and ordered the man to free him, lest he die at once. He quickly obeyed, and the maester jumped out of the back, feeling returning to his body as he backed slowly away from the Dornishman and his cart. The porter sighed, deciding the scholar to be more trouble than he was worth, and left with a lash to the beasts. The dust settled.

"Well, what in the seven hells do I do now?" thought Astaron aloud. Antlers was a ways to the southeast, but Duskendale was a ways southeast of there. Duskendale…it seemed like ages since he had last thought of the city. What was it that they were supposed to do there? Ah, yes. Escanane Waters and Denys Darklyn had, in their own ways, created reason for a visit.

After a day of walking, a trader from Antlers agreed to take him into town in exchange for service to Lord Buckwell.

"See, learnin' man, the good master's suffering from a bad back." The trader told him on the way. "Any other day, it's naught to me, but he dies, he looks for a new man. I've mouths to feed. Buckwell orders all men leaving the seat to return with maesters if there are any."

"A logical course…" The backs of old men defected for numerous reasons, the first being poor posture. Failure to sit up straight on a throne would doubtless have that effect, but it made no matter. The treatments ranged from-

"He's offering some hundred dragons." The trader said, interrupting his thoughts.

"I can acquire gold with little and less trouble. What of swift passage to Duskendale?" There was naught of need to reveal the gold in saddlebags of a horse lost to him.

"I'd take you myself for the gold Buckwell's putting out." I could get faster transport, like as not, but the man is unsuspecting.

"What do they call you in Antlers? My name is Straachan." Should he ever hear this name, he will know who is using it.

"On my name day, men said Bailton of Oxcross. Else, I'm Bail."

As fate would unravel, Bail was more unsuspecting than expected. Not only did he have an entirely unremarkable past- father died of ale sickness, mother ejected them out to make their livings, king's a bastard, lord's a bastard, tax master's a real bastard- but the man himself was nondescript. Not young, not old, no distinguishing features, brown hair and eyes- he could be picked from a crowd of extremely interesting people but no other.

Antlers was entirely unremarkable, and a less wise man would think Bailton had chosen to live there for that reason. Immediately the equivalents of the gold cloaks- the resemblance was uncanny- recognized his chain and nigh on abducted Astaron to be taken before their commander, only for the man himself to decide on a private meeting, in his personal quarters, which were not lavish, but stately all the same.

"Maester. You have heard, I assume." Of course I've heard, you bloody cunt.

"My lord, you have a physical ail and your ail will be relented physically." The man did not look to have ever had a 'physical ail' in his life. He was of stocky, solid figure, shorter than Straachan but like as not stronger, given twenty or thirty years again.

"What do you propose, maester Straachan?"

"You must needs lie supine on a slanted surface, feet suspended that you do not slip."

"It sounds…mad." Buckwell would relent, but only upon being convinced of the truth of Astaron's silver link-at that, he saw the machination constructed at once. A wooden plane hinged on a fulcrum that Buckwell could put his feet into the stirrups before leaning backward by holding his arms above his temple, turning himself with crown to the ground.

"Straachan, I can feel it working."

"Bear, my lord, that you must needs continue this treatment when felt that it is needed. Of course, be sure not to stay a great length of time with crown to ground."

"Of course. Give this maester his due. Let no man say Lord Buckwell is not one of his word." There were slight protests from Buckwell's men, many like as not expected some brilliant flash of light or other spectacular solution, or at least some poultice. The lord himself was wiser, and as a man of one and sixty, as he would say, a lord learns to recognize true scholarship. Astaron would receive his expected price, but would sleep before departing. Is half my life naught but dreams? Must I, for all my waking hours, be doomed to ignorance while in these incomprehensible dreams have all revealed to me? Sleep answered his question as the sky blackened over the snow.

He found himself to be in a blanketed field, trudging after a black figure in the distance, perhaps a man, but invisible with the howling snow. It was uncertain whether the snow came up to his waist or- Mother have mercy. He was only feet off the ground, a child of some sort. Struggling to keep up with the man, there was little time to stop and look for clues or inspect himself. Drawing nearer to the walking man, his height and weight were uncertain due to a heavy cloak and what looked to be some shapeless mass strewn across his shoulders. Around his own small body, there was a similar cloak, like as not the only reason for his continued survival.

"I…can-" the mumblings of unknown origin were indistinguishable. "-have a turn." The cloaked man stopped, setting down his burden, which, removing some of its bundling, was a girl about his height, but before a good look could be discerned, he was in the freezing air, and then wrapped tightly around a steel object, which he realized to be the fullhelm of the walking man. His small body rapidly lost energy in the conditions, and it was a struggle to maintain consciousness, let alone fully discern what things he perceived.

When, hours later, the need to make water arose within him, it arose with a different feeling than it had always. Seeking to explain this while being set down, the dreamer found himself in a girl's body, making water while trying to pay little and less attention to the process itself. It unnerved him, and though he was rarely a devout man, girls at this…height gave him a sense of discomfort, but of that he had plenty from the freezing winds.

Were there aught comfort to take, it was in the very nature of this man. Without seeing his face or doublet, there was little and less doubt he was a knight, as true as one ever had been. They came upon a ruin, little more than rocks jutting from the ground, only to find what sounded like an old man speaking through the bundles of warm clothes that encased his body, a carapace against the freezing wind.

"It is well that you are here at last. Our friend has yet to return." Looking around the ruins, all was clear to the maester as he roused from sleep in shock.

Straachan is alive.

But where is the third girl?


	12. Myren 2

MYREN

The men had little and less luck asking and forcing information out of the captive girl. But then, that is all they are, thought Myren. They gave her the room alone with the maid, a small storage space above the ballast.

"Do you know who I am?" The girl shook her head.

"My name is Myren. I work for Denys Darklyn." She shuddered at the mention of his name. Perhaps there was something there, perhaps she had merely seen him for more than two heartbeats. "Don't you think it would be fair to tell me your name?" She silently stared into Myren's eyes. The child was no maester, but there was aught to be said for wit among common girls. Myren would know.

"I'm telling naught."

"Darke was cruel to you, wasn't he?" He's killed children before. You got off well.

"He tied me up and I'm not telling you aught."

"Naught save your name? I feel unkind talking without using it." The politeness was unusually difficult for her to manufacture. "I'm sure you have a pretty name."

"If I tell you my name, must needs I tell you aught else?"

"Of course not." Where would you get such an idea? This is an interrogation.

"My name is Coliete Stitch. Now let me alone."

"Very well…" For now. Myren turned, rising to full height, only to find a small crowd had gathered outside. She heard a voice from the back.

"Well?"

"Does the name 'Coliete Stitch' mean aught to any man?" she asked, sidling through the crowd. It's as if my life were a mummer's farce. With no response, Myren decided it was of naught great concern.

"Her name makes no matter. We must know about this knight." Brown Courser interjected. Darke, feeding his horse on the deck in the path of every hand, scowled.

"I killed him…or near as much as makes no matter."

"Killed and he makes no matter- near killed and he's more a problem than before. I've a mind he's alive." Darke returned to his work, accepting the chance he had not fully killed the knight with one sidelong swipe. That one's no man, thought Myren. Her master spoke to her much later when the crowd had dispersed, having ordered the men to return to their posts.

"Myren, there was a time some days ago that a merchant informed on a whore who had stolen from some dignitary. In truth, I had a mind there was some gold in it, but the trip turned out of little worth." He continued, standing stock-still next to her as she tended the ravens. "I ended up making some fool's errand out of it for Brown Courser, that the whore was some woods witch-it makes no matter. I had every man of them on death's door. There was an old man the merchant bloodied after-some knight a certain sellsword of ours decided near enough to dead- a girl I killed and the whore herself on the flood dying."

"And you think the knight is out for revenge."

"It's like as not, with most men. I saw but one maid, yet Darke described a knight travelling with a woman and three. Perhaps the old man died, perhaps not."

"We must needs ask Darke to describe the group in greater detail. If we are incorrect, there is a knight after us for another reason than revenge. It might be that the girls are catspaws of a crown." Denys visibly considered it.

"Waters is a liar. I describe the knight and he agrees, correctly or no. I ask him to describe the knight and he invents details. Has Brown Courser told him of the woods witch?"

"Like as not, he sees woods witches everywhere now. Any sellsword who tells him a story has that much more right to be cocksure, and Brown courser is surer than most men." The silence hung in the air for a few heartbeats, no more than half a hundred.

"We are not to ask Darke for further detail. What he has revealed to us suffices for me."

"Can you truly be so sure? The rational thing would be to adjust for the risk." As she spoke, the lantern on the table in the ship's ravenry shook, light oscillating on the face of Denys Darklyn, or what so ever his true name may be. He formed a deep, contemplative look, an unusual thing, as most decisions came upon him quickly.

"There is an opportunity we must take while the iron is hot." Myren thought for a moment that it might be there were different vagaries of wisdom- or perhaps, as she believed thus far- that certainty was the only option. She nodded calmly in response to the master's assertion. I shall never agree, though. Does he endeavor to ensnare me into his trappings of power? He will endeavor for naught.

"When a man strikes hot iron, he will be sure to have first a hammer lest he strike and be branded for a fool."

"Suppose a man is one part in thee certain."

"It is not aught upon which he should dare to strike."

"Suppose two parts in three are sure."

"One part is enough to be branded." A light came to his eyes.

"So, one part is like enough to not dare, but not like enough to dare? Would one part in ten yet be enough to be branded?" Here it was, the trap.

"It is, yet a chance of nine parts in ten must needs be taken." Even as she spoke, doubt crept into the edges of her mind. Did I only agree to sound a reasonable argument? What if I brand my hand all the same?

Without waiting for her to finish considering it, Denys stood.

"The day you find a grave decision to make and you have certainty of nine parts in ten, I shall tell you my true name."

With that, he was gone.

As Myren slept that night, she banished all thoughts of the conversation, having challenged and entertained to the end of her patience. She could recall decisions where there were more than ten true, possible, foreseeable choices. Was there truly no way to be sure in nine parts while one remained?

Morning came during sleep for the first time in a moon's turn. Waking, Myren decided that she would miss the whispers of Catelyn Blackwood, the uncertain truths that circulated through the old castle. On the boat there were only men apart from her, and men do not carry secrets, not even in love. Must a man promulgate all that he is? If others are, he must for love.

And then for the thought when it came again, she turned away. A man wants not love, he does not know it, not truly. A man wants naught save the carnal pleasures he can appropriate from a girl to unwise with the ways of the world to know to refuse.

"Myren, we've reached Maidenpool." Whatever man spoke behind her both turned her from her thoughts and spoke the truth. Passing through the Saltpans had been the longest and most difficult part of the course, Denys having to explain their purpose with various rotating lies or in many cases provide veiled threats to those who questioned them.

If the man had one skill, it was creating a false impression.

The hills east of Maidenpool could be seen at a distance, seeming to Myren to endeavor in vain to show how the land was before the city became a stinking hole with growing pains. To make matters worse, it would only grow into another Flea Bottom, a haven for rampant crime that smells all the worse, layers of human excrement on top of layers of death on top of layers of the sordid affairs of men.

But Thenn was no more a place where a woman could find peace. There were years' rides of trees, clean water was as abundant as a man or woman could wish, and there were naught who could not grow accustomed to the freezing wind. The trouble came with the customs.

Rather than being a high sin and punishable by death or mutilation, rape was required should a man desire a wife. Add that women were expected to become barbaric warriors, and the streets of King's Landing began to smell faintly of fair flowers.

Randyll Tarly was a hard man, Myren could see it in every aspect of him. His visage was one of strength and determination, a short grey beard and the rest a deliberate shave. In many ways, he had always reminded Myren of Tywin Lannister, whom she had seen only once. Tarly held the city and others like it with the swift sword of justice promised to killers and the killed. With his son, Dickon, married to Eleanor Mooton, he had assumed the legal role of lord, though he had truly won it by forcibly taking the city.

"Who is he that leads?" asked the lord himself.

"Denys Darke" Denys Darklyn responded at the gathering. He had paid the crew for the voyage and their silence, and assembled the small group that remained before Tarly in private appeal. "We ask only swift passage to Duskendale. Word of an associate has recently arrived." The lie was one well told, but there could be no hoodwinking Randyll Tarly. Their true purpose in the city was to recover the body of Escenane Waters, a lifetime Sword who had given his dying breath to their purpose. Denys had explained it a moon's turn previously.

"Do you know why you and I are on this mummer's farce?"

"We hunger for power."

"You do. I do. We don't. The Swords, to my knowledge, cause chaos."

"Chaos? There can be no power without order."

"Oh, but there can be. The weak hide in their order, they limit themselves. I am outside, I am capable of all manners of evil."

"And you are doomed to have only the power of fear."

"Ah, but that is the variety that lasts for all days. Kings die and lines leave, but men still speak of dragons, some even in whispers."

"That is why we recover the body of Waters, if it is all as you claim."

It all made sense to her. The bastard was infected, after all.

Randyll, staring down with a disapproving glare could not have their heads as it was clear he wished, for to his knowledge they had not violated the king's law.

"You and your wife will have four horses that I can spare, two for those killers." Tarly was not a man to mince words. Cocksure. "They will suffice for your security. Men say that if you are honest, you do not need my sword, if not, you will not want it." Moments later they were ahorse, like as not to rid Tarly of a problem. Myren understood, he was a busy man with the amount of supplicants. What irked her was the assumption that she and Denys were married-no, that she was a wife.

"Lay off. It gets a man no place better to follow up." Denys Darklyn had said as he turned her away from Randyll's steel gaze. "Should it help, you're not the first." Myren scowled. "Why did I think it would help?" He said after a pause. Yes, why did you?

As they led the beasts past the Stinking Goose, Denys had chosen a dappled mare for himself and a roan gelding for Darke. "Can't have him pulling anything on this ride." He whispered to Myren. As Brown Courser announced he had no preference, Myren led away a great gold stallion between that and a grey mare while in her mind deciding that it was more like the sellsword had no judgement of horseflesh.

The pink stone of Maidenpool darkened to grey in the evening light as Myren took the lead, as though on a vanguard of a battle that would never be. But if there were a battle presented to her, whether one of words or weapons, she would see it through.

Chaos would grip Westeros in days. She would rise.

Of these things, she was certain for nine parts in ten.


	13. Astaron 7

ASTARON

"Turns out you and myself are stuck anon."

"It seems so." He' s less annoying than the Dornishman.

The maester had saddled Bailton's horse what seemed like days ago. The beast's hooves crunched the snow below them as Bailton continued to prove himself a worth choice of bearer.

"My sister once read the Seven-Pointed Star on a long journey. The whole damnable thing! To this day it amazes me aught a one would do aught other than leave the faith to the septons." Bailton's list of normalities numbered fourth: He's irreligious.

Astaron knew well that many men held to no gods, but it was more common a man would ostensibly care.

"Can you believe the wages men on the bottom like myself take?" He started sometime later. "The masters must be whoring and drinking like kings. Avarice, if I've ever seen it, can be seen in a master."

"What would you do if you earned more?"

"Like as not, I'd find a nice Lysine pleasure house. Ale wouldn't be amiss." Why did I bother asking? Bailton's list of normalities numbered fifth: He's not only a hypocrite, he's a judgmental hypocrite. A thought crept into Astaron's mind.

"Should we meet a man who claims to know me-"

"Like as not, he does."

"Fine, should we meet a man I have no desire to meet, I've been using the name Straachan."

"Straachan? What sort of name is that? Look, we'll cross that bridge when we get there."

The trek continued and the hours passed, Bailton continually trying to spark a conversation between his fellow rider and himself and at last Astaron relented.

"So, what do maesters do apart from tend the sick? I've heard naught of substance."

"Maesters advise, firstly. It might be a king wants to know whether or not to act on a threat. It might be a bannerman requests advice on answering the call of a lord. Maesters answer questions. There are many rings a man of the calling can earn, I have one and ten myself."

"What do they mean? Why are they different?"

"My most practiced is my silver link of medicine. Perhaps second is my pewter, which I earned finally of them by study of the earth. Yellow gold represents economics, red language. I'm not fluent, but I could get by in Valyrian and Ghiscari. The link of pale steel was my first, I learned the secrets of fire and the forge. This copper one was from my studies of history." Which, seven know, I only use to act like I know all things. Such is the necessary pretense of a maester.

"How'd you come by the steel one?"

"I can train boys in arms. Most castles have a master-at-arms, though, so it makes no matter unless there are a large amount of boys."

"Is that…platinum? Gods be good, what means-what cause has the Citadel handing out those?" Astaron smiled before answering.

"When a man finishes his link of yellow gold, he like as not decides himself done with matters of gold. However, a few continue for deeper study and practice, as well as mastery of finance and coin."

Having explained eight of the links, the maester decided he had spoken enough. A master, even an acolyte must retain some degree of mystery, and Astaron believed he deserved as much.

"Scholars are awarded all manners of trinkets as they rise through the studies, rods of certain metals, masks, rings- these I sold. The lot makes little and less matter and use of itself, and the dragons from their sale paid for books."

"I heard some old maid tell of a night with a candle."

"It's a test to weed out the lackwits who bothered earning an electrum link." Astaron had neither understanding nor sympathy for astrology. The archmaesters lock an acolyte who's earned his links in a room with a dragonglass candle. Most men spend the night in prayer or calm meditation. I slept. When they let him out, he's a maester all the same, but they may think less of one who tried to light it."

"Ever had a man sneak tools in?"

"Not recently, there's no place to hide them. If you do succeed in lighting it, they check your body and the entire room. Once a man pissed in a glass, separated the elements, extracted the phosphorus, some negligible amount, and they found him at hunt's up still striking the edge of the candle with his steel link for a spark."

"There's the rub. A spark- even without other help, a man must needs create a spark. No bow would be allowed, I would think."

"Nor stones." Astaron knew how a man might accomplish it, but had as little interest in a Valyrian steel link as one of electrum. As an acolyte, he had always known that such things were wastes of his time, making little enough matter to ignore entirely.

Nearing Duskendale, a man ahorse rode up in the dark of midnight, asking if he knew well a sword. Oh, as if that sounds naught like a code.

"What man should ask? Denys Darklyn?" He paused. "Do you know naught of him?" It was fortuitous the old man- Storm was his name, yes-mentioned him.

"All Swords know of Denys Darklyn. With me, there is much to discuss." Astaron requested Bail wait outside the city a paucity of hours, he would soon return. Of that I can be sure.

The man's cart was a swift one, pulled by horses rather than oxen. With the city in sight, Bailton following distantly, the man began.

"My name is Colt Tanner."

"They call me Straachan. You've an odd name." Of course, it could just be that you're a cunt.

"When a man needs a sellsword, there are no hanging signs to interpret. He asks around. He learns to ask for common things- a Tanner, a Kettle, a Courser- things of that nature. The wrong man thinks nothing of it. The right man tells me who's been asking." That speech sounds well practiced. This one's definitely a cunt.

"Is there a sellsword named Cunt?" Asked Astaron, unable to restrain himself. Why in the seven hells are there so many sellswords anyway?

"You wouldn't but know." Tanner responded simply.

Approaching Duskendale, Rufus Leek's men held them to question their purpose. The matter had gained entirely too much attention for House Rykker, and their precaution was reasonable, but Astaron was annoyed at the inconvenience all the same.

"It is for us to warn you- there have been a troubling amount of bodies." Oh, as if that sounds naught like an empty scare.

"We heard." Astaron responded without elaboration, hoping to avoid further question.

Once inside the city, Leek's patrol having let them pass, the maester discarded previous thoughts of an empty scare. Bodies were being burned on every corner, no man able to offer explanation save divine punishment. Viewing the carnage, even Astaron accepted the idea as a legitimate one. Tanner led Astaron through the city on foot, leading the beasts and cart.

"I've done what was possible with the corpse. What are the orders?" What in the seven hells do you mean?

"I- am not advised to relay them until seeing the body." Colt nodded and halted the cart near a large inn called the Seven Swords.

"This is where it all began. Denys Darklyn took his name in his room here. He joined the cause of a man he will not name. He swore to end the blood of- here we are." The sellsword drew a key out of his pocket in which he had been searching as the two of them stepped through the door into the main room, where the girl checking the ledger nodded as he raised the key in the air.

"It was this room. But what's important is what I hid in it." He opened the door to a small room, one Astaron assumed was continually rented by the Swords, like as not under different names. Lying on the floor was a sealed box, green glass and iron. Inside was a man mostly concealed, but his noble visage was clear through the glass.

Renfred Rykker- no, he was away- Escanane Waters.

Inside Astaron's mind thousands of pieces assembled, but it was not the hour to sort out the hows and whys. He turned to Tanner in an official manner, stating his purpose clearly.

"The body is to be taken out of the city with not a man knowing of it." If I disabuse Leek, the Swords will get here and kill everyone who stands in the way of this sickening corpse. Already the sellsword covered the glass and metal box with a sheet from the bed and squatted low on one end. Assuming his role quickly, Astaron assisted him in taking the box out of the room, through the hallway and out to the cart, where they deposited it. Looking north as he positioned the box in the cart, he saw a party of four ahorse working their way around the chalk cliffs.

"Where are we to take it?"

"Anywhere- but quickly, Leeks men may be wise."

"At once." They pushed the beasts getting out of Duskendale, seeing neither Bail nor his horse had it been tied. As they rode, the scholar's mind raced to think.

"Had you heard aught of the plan insofar?"

"I had heard only that the God's Eye was a thought." The Swords are trying to leach into the groundwater- the Swords _know about_ groundwater?

"Of course, it was discussed. The plan, however, has changed. We are to take it to the North, to the secret hiding place. The crowns were not supposed to know for years- but the death of Catelyn Blackwood suggests they may be catching up." The sellsword nodded, putting Astaron's lies together.

"Of course, why else would they kill her- she was once one of them." He made a fist and angrily struck the seat of the cart near his leg. "But she wasn't good enough, was she- the hidden first daughter- really just _gets in the way of things._" His anger was beyond silencing, the maester let it pass, breathing in relief. But where in the seven hells was that lackwit Bailton?

"And how did a sellsword, of whatever skill, come across the iron coffin? The glass is Westerosi, I assume?" Most clear glass had to be imported, but this work would have been conducted in secrecy.

"To us are our own smiths. Denys Darklyn left the box in the room last he used it and the keys under a stone for me to find. He always knew… he must needs have always known… Escanane Waters, our truest Sword, if one with no weapon to his name… had little and less chance to survive." Astaron wondered if aught a man called him 'truest sword' before his death, but it made no matter. He had extracted what he needed to know from Colt Tanner. Fabricating some unheard reason, the maester, crouching, stepped carefully from the seat in the front of the cart next to the armed man to the back with the box. Silently he drew the Black Dagger from the sleeve of his robes, Valyrian Steel glinting in the light of the rising sun. Knowing the danger of hesitation, he plunged the weapon into the center of Colt's back, his scream resounding at once, arms flying to his swordbelt and wound. Astaron attempted prize the lifted blade from Tanner's body, but the man flung him with what remained of his strength. Landing with his back on the green glass plate displaying the features of Escanane Waters, the sellsword, standing kicked him in the abdomen, forcing all air from his body.

"The horses-"Astaron began, but it was too late. With naught ordering them, they stopped suddenly, throwing Colt forward. As he tumbled out the back of the cart, the scholar needed no silver link to know the man was dead. The older man and the box had also slid backward, but not as severely as Astaron had assumed.

Standing, the scholar decided matters three, all immediately clear to him.

The box was to travel far into the North, as well as he. It was the best, perhaps the only place of hiding the box. Astaron was no hero, but the disease could kill scores- no, legions.

He had killed a man, and not in defense of self or a woman. By all accounts, he was a common killer. In his own words, he was a cunt.

"Perhaps I was wrong to speak so quickly of other men."

The final matter was that there was a body to inter.

I'm hoping you're all enjoying so far. I've had one great review, but go ahead and let me know anything you feel would help.


	14. Enter Reyne

REYNE

She clung to the lantern with what strength remained her, but for a tenth part sapped by the waves. Her father's entire body was dripping, but all the same he barked orders to throw the nets. One of the hands said that there would be time to catch them when they reached the doldrums. To his observation, as he said, the other ship had few oars. Reyne could feel the anger radiating from her father like the heat from the lantern, but he nodded and clapped the hand on the shoulder.

"Good man. I should thank Hadverik for releasing the nets. Reyne was never close enough, but he tried." Men were always discussing how Hadverik tried. Once pirates had boarded, armored men from the iron islands, men with no fear of sinking. Hadverik could not save her mother, but he tried. In days before that, he was to catch a brigand ahorse, one who had stolen a Ghiscari silver crescent from her mother's chest. The other rider outstripped him, but Hadverik had tried. When first he met her mother, Reyne's nameday had not come. Akhansa Harclay nursed her babe on a teat as Hadverik stood guard by the ice cells as the prisoners were being moved. He tried to keep them back when they broke rank, but even though all died, her mother had another babe to take to her breast before the year was dead.

"Father…" Reyne started, unable to finish.

"I'm here. We're going to find the people that did this. They don't know as much about the sea as your father does."

"Tell me about mother… what was her nature… before." Her father sent the last man out of the room to see if the nets had brought aught from the deep.

"Your mother was a comely maid when I saw her first. It means more than you know now that I hope you end up with more of her in you than you have of me." He paused, lost in memory. "We were not willing, in those days, to even learn the other's name."

"You and mother-for true?"

"She believed herself too young and I agreed. She was flowered, as soon you will be, but there were matters of the known world and of the hearts and minds of men that she yet wished to learn, experiences of the sights and songs she had yet to discover, and I had been… different, but understanding. My brother did not live to see one and ten, but I remember his asking my father if he may visit Old Ghis, having filled his head with visions from books that praise too well."

"How did you ever…"

"When we were nigh married, my father reminded me of my post. It is a man's right and duty to take his wife, and hers to bear children. I first loved her and her me the night your older sister was conceived." He stared off toward the door, Reyne knowing not wherefore. Perhaps duty summoned once more. "No, you will know soon enough, like as not know wrongly, should I not tell you. It must be."

"Tell me what things, father?" The fire had warmed her small body thoroughly.

"When your mother first saw me, she told me she knew what sort of man I was. She said she had naught but hatred for me and her beauty turned to rot in my eyes. When my sire praised me, it was for naught."

"But you're not a mean man, father…"

"When I was a younger man, I admired Lord Bolton. I saw him a strong leader." Reyne knew little and less of the Boltons, she had only heard they were capable of great cruelty. She nodded silently. "Ramsay Bolton is a boy in every sense. He rapes and kills and skins and flays and all things to make men wish themselves dead. But he is the less fearsome of the two of them." The maid held the lantern out to her father, but he waved it back. "Roose Bolton has committed unknown horrors, silent ones, silent for the blood shed to preserve his secrets. All men fear the Lord of the Dreadfort."

"But you and mother had us."

"On the night of the wedding, your mother was forced naked into the lord's chambers with me. She looked at me with the greatest disgust a man can imagine, as though I were some offal. Should I live a thousand years, I shall never forget what she said. 'Do what you will. Nothing can change who I am.'"

"What did you do then, father?"

"I discovered that there was another sort of courage or perhaps something similar, Reyne. There was no innocence to take from her, no knowledge I could bestow. She was complete without me, but not I without her. I told her that as I took her on the stone floor, and however cold it was out, we sweated together. It was the joy of summer. On that day I knew what it was to love."

"But father, it may happen that I need to-"

"It is best for me not to speak of these things. You will discover for yourself, as expected of a woman grown." He said, standing. "There is the matter of your injury. You have not felt it, for a time, but the feeling will return." She suddenly recalled hurting when she landed in the small boat.

"It was my leg. I tried to fall properly… but I was so surprised…"

"I know. Legs are easier to mend than other parts. The gods are good." He walked out of the room, leaving Reyne to feel the pain slowly return to her leg. She had been so cold, she had hardly noticed when a man who swore he'd set his brother's leg aright took her leg and bound it with wood and rope. Her thoughts turned to her father, Torrhen Harclay, who outside shouted and threatened. Perhaps he must, thought Reyne. Whatever men believe of him, he must have them believe that he will lead them and protect me.

Shouts came up from the crowd on deck and Reyne tried to stand, but reconsidered. The pain was now great, and there was naught she could do without hurting her leg more.

"State your name if you want to be buried with one." Her father's voice sounded menacing, and through the walls she imagined him stock still in front of the mysterious arrival.

"Please…" a foreign voice choked. "My name is Ghazdan." Her father laughed.

"As though a man could not have guessed-your filthy hair gave marked you Ghiscari, and it was one in four your surname would be Ghazdan. But now that you stand, I know I have seen you."

"I was but a slave- I followed orders."

"The North frees all slaves. You had naught to fear from master or me. But now matters have changed. You might have killed my get."

"I would never-" Reyne heard the cracking of bone, like as not her father striking the prisoner.

"But you averred you are a slave to follow orders. Your master would have ordered you to kill her if I sounded for a boarding." The girl dragged herself closer to the door, mindful of her leg.

"Is there aught-"

"Essosi-" closer now, Reyne could hear him spit. "-always trying to buy off, persuade, lie- you never know that for some matters, the price must be blood." The metallic sound of a single sword being drawn rang out.

"No- I can tell you about the plan- there was a dragon-"

"Lies will not save you from steel."

"-frozen in the snow, preserved for the centuries-"

"In the sight of the gods, I pronounce you guilty."

"-some children of the forest protecting it-" There was a silence, and then a gasping, struggling sound. Her father had his finger's around the Ghiscari throat.

"Who among your company is from Westeros- the Sunset Kingdoms?" He demanded.

"But one- an archer-"

"Where is his home-Dorne? Is it the Vale?"

"Please, I don't know-he said he was a bastard ironman-" Ghazdan inhaled deeply as her father released his throat.

"The gods of Ghis must smile on you, boy." Her father walked along the deck, heavy footsteps colliding with the wood as he spoke. Reyne decided that the boy would like as not live, if for only a few days. She breathed a sigh of relief before falling asleep to pass the time and the pain.

Reyne woke to her leg hurting, but perhaps not so bad as before. Across from her there was a small bundle about her size, initially suggesting a week's provisions. But as she dragged herself closer, the bundle moved. Her father came in, seeing what had happened and explaining.

"The Ghiscari will sleep in here when not at work. The men believe I should have killed him. He will be worked to death before long, but, having helped us, I am obliged to let him live if he is strong." Reyne attempted to lay a hand at the head of the bundle. "Do not rouse him. He has difficulty enough with sleep." An occupied man, her father left her. Why is he so busy all the time? Why does he have to do everything himself? Is there naught he can leave to some other man?

In time Reyne would regain the use of her leg, but until then, she was bound.

"When I am free, Ghazdan, I shall no more waste the chance to walk about." She told the sleeping boy. "It might be you would that you could exchange places with me." She smiled at the thought, resisting the urge to giggle. She was right, though. If there were aught a man aboard who would work her to death, she had not seen him. If he had the broken leg instead of she, all would be aright.

When the boy rolled over in his sleep, it was clear to her that he was no more than three and ten, only a year older than she. His hair was a wiry mess and spread like small vines down his face to his chin, a boy's beard. His complexion was a swarthy one, but not entirely dark like the Summer Islanders of whom she had heard tales. With his waking he was off to work directly.

Naught of conversation passed between them until both chanced to eat at the same hour. The fare was largely stale with the time spent at sea, onions and bread, but Ghazdan appeared unwilling to even chew, forcing down his throat what Reyne had hardly touched.

"Are you going to eat that?" It was the second thing he said to her. The first was 'Stop struggling' when he seized her and forced her through a portcullis. But, remembering her mother telling her ever to forgive, she politely responded.

"Yes, but not half so quickly." Ghazdan grimaced, stood, and returned to work, raising sails, lowering sails, whatever was asked of him. Though the hands had initially wanted him dead, the Ghiscari made it clear to them that he followed orders, and with his haste to follow orders, Reyne noticed some lost the blame they held over him for following the order to kidnap her.

"We've caught wind of her!" shouted a man on the mast, climbed half way.

"How might you tell it true?" Her father spoke loudly and clearly.

"We're drafting them; I can see it in the sails. They're tacking, like as not approaching the doldrums."

"How far out?"

"Thirteen hours or near as much as makes no matter." As father had explained, a knarr like theirs could sail six parts in ten into the wind. The man nodded, silently commending the scout.

Later Reyne was belowdecks in her small quarters. Ghazdan was lying awake. She approached cautiously, as she would a wild animal.

"What is it that you desire?" he asked politely, in all reason under orders to be polite. Else it was the nature of the Essosi, as father would say, she thought.

"Did you speak for true about a dragon?" she asked calmly, her voice even but raised with interest.

"No."


	15. Astaron 8

ASTARON

King's Landing was the last place the maester wanted to be. He had only just arrived, and already a knight was suspicious of his holdings. By all opinion, such a box was a suspicious thing, but it made no matter the box was being checked. It was common for coffins to be transported to various places. The trouble was that this knight was extraordinarily curious and seven or eight feet tall. He did not speak, merely skirting around the cart, as though he anticipated an enemy to jump from it. A dignified older woman sauntered to the scene as the knight attempted to open the box, despite Astaron's insistence that the dead must not be disturbed.

"Ser Robert, there is little need to trouble the maester. Maesters are not men; they will not trouble us. Come now, I only said the cart must needs be checked for swords. We cannot have the Sparrows up in arms once more." It was Astaron's understanding that the Faith had taken on new power at the acquiescence of the old queen herself, only to exercise such force by taking her captive and but days earlier, force her to walk the streets naked. For a time, Ser Kevan Lannister and Grand Maester Pycelle had seized control of the city, driving rebels from the streets with swift, coordinated sorties commanded of the gold cloaks.

Though he had never seen her, the aging beauty with hair of red gold was to Astaron like as not the old queen, Cersei. To his thinking, she was a bloody cunt.

"Thank you, Your Grace." Thank you for not being a cunt from what I can tell at the moment. She looked as though she were laughing inside, so he departed quickly, making his way to the port through the city. She will not let me leave alive, thought the maester.

At the River Gate, the harbor was only on the other side. Like as not they're watching me, Astaron concluded. There were gold cloaks casting as suspicious looks as a man can cast from within his armor. But then, a gold cloak would ever match the suspicion any man gave him. Such was the nature of the beast.

"Hold, man of learning." Astaron held, recognizing his recognition. The man before the cart was a clear court official, aging in visage, a hint of a robe of Myrish purple could be seen at his collar bone, the most of his body covered by a simple brown one. The most striking feature was his baldness and the apparent softness of his skin. And yet, despite his apparent weakness, the maester had his misgivings that his addressor was of little merit.

"What troubles you?"

"Oh, pay it no mind, but a little bird told me that there was a danger to the realm I serve." There was naught in the way of a plausible explanation.

"Then… you would know the importance of its secrecy." The other man might have scowled, but it was unclear. "I assume one such as yourself could have the gold cloaks on me." Thrice damned fool, who knows what would happen in the confusion?

"To most men-" he stepped forward slowly, cautiously. He began again in a softer tone "-I would deny it. But you, you are not of any consequence at all. Know you naught of the game of thrones?"

"I stay out of most men's dealings. I ask most men to do the same." The trouble is, wondered Astaron, what would a man do with the rest?

"Perhaps it is wise and nothing more. Perhaps it is foolish. You learn when you die."

"You have no power." He's going to call this bluff.

"Power lies where men believe it lies, maester. Ask aught what he thinks of Varys the Spider." With that, the robed man turned, like as not with other business to attend.

Isn't it simply radiant? Now a moiety of the freaks in Westeros suspects me.

He loaded the box onto a ship for Naath, where, Seven saving, it would never be seen again. The secrecy of its contents was the sole providence for all life in Westeros and possibly the Known World. On his course, he had many times considered revealing the box to the crown and alerting the Seven Kingdoms to the threat posed by the Swords Sable. But for valor, Astaron was useless as nipples on a breastplate. The Swords would kill him, the time it took making no matter to a man of them. Another Escanane Waters would take the place of the first, like as not as soon as the Swords discovered the bastard had failed.

"This is the end for you, maester." Astaron expected the words as they came to him, he knelt on the stone floor before the Seven. Gold cloaks had assembled quietly behind him, but he did not fly. There was no hope of leaving alive.

"Do you have aught idea what I know- what my knowledge has done for this realm?" Is it all I am, a reference? It is not a proud existence. It is mine.

"We know, by information and order of the Grand Maester and Queen Regent, that His Grace demands you be summoned at once."

"This will be no trial of the faith, will it? I have offense to only mortal men. What of the gods, cloak?"

"The gods do not give us orders. We follow those which we have. We take the prisoners to the dungeons." His tone did more than suggest no time for debate. Beneath the dome of gold and crystal and glass, Astaron could only have faith the gods were watching. Father, judge me justly.

"What do you mean to do, then? Will you drag me out of here? Will you spill blood on the holy floor? In the sight of the gods, will you kill me if I resist?"

"We shall do no more than as ordered." He seized Astaron by the upper arm. "Come with us, if you are so devout." Astaron had never felt so devout in his life.

On the way to the dungeons in the Red Keep, Astaron observed those fated characters from before as the custody led him through the streets. The robed man simply sighed and shook his head when Astaron caught sight of him, the queen letting slip a smirk no man else could see.

I studied Economics and Geology. Did this woman learn herself in the ways of being a cunt?

But even as he thought to himself, all pride was gone. He had nominally fled his fate by hiding among gods in whom he had half believed, and had not the courage even to run when the gold cloaks found him. Who am I to boast, he thought, and who was she to judge?

Even now with the guard around him, he was clothed and carried every mark of office, every link of knowledge so soon to be wasted, spilled on the ground with the last drop of his blood. The dungeons were no eternal fate for a man condemned, no, he would face the king's justice, and sooner rather than later. Should his skill be worth aught, it came to him, he may chance an appeal for a life of service. There was ever a shortage of maesters, and his links would earn him great respect. Surely the king would see what he would so soon throw into a wicker basket.

The men locked him into a cell once within the Red Keep.

"Please! My talent is wasted in death! Even as a low medic, Tommen cannot say I am naught of worth! Ask any man of Antlers of the knowledge of Straachan!"

"Eddard Stark was but six and thirty and to all men a skilled warrior." The guard responded, anger showing for the first time. "He could have joined his natural son on the Wall. He could have, with a true lord's experience and wisdom, led the Night's Watch farther north than aught an ordinary man would dare." He turned to his companions, who stared silently in the other direction.

"We heard naught." Spoke one in answer to a silent question. The gold cloaks disappeared, leaving Astaron to his fatigue. The man sunk low, unchecked by aught an eye in the darkness, allowing grief to wash over him. Back pressed against the wall of the cell, the maester wondered how many other men had done as he had, contemplated their own crimes and fates, waiting for their deaths in despair. Some must needs have stared silently at the wall, scowl upon the brow, repentant of naught. More than a paucity, like as not, considered trial by combat, placing fortune to a chance of steel. Such a thing was not within Astaron.

From his robes he took the Black Dagger. Its cold beauty could not be seen in the darkness, but the maester well remembered its life of terror. There was no question to its not being taken from him, he was a scholar, no man of war, no man with skill of arms. No man would have suspected he possessed it. His gold, but for a dragon or two, had been surrendered to the captain of the ship carrying the box. It was not to be opened, and it was to be left on the island off Sothoryos without so much as a word. Glad to see such a quantity of dragons, like as not more than he had seen in his life, the captain accepted his task without question. In spite of it all, Astaron chuckled at the idea of sailors taking such care over a crude wooden box. Oddly content, sleep came to the maester.

In sleep the Red Death appeared once more, armor of red steel forming the carapace of the warrior twenty score from the obsidian floor. He rose from his throne of ice and dragonglass, plucking the maester from before him and holding him in front of his helmet, a monstrous red wall of steel. Where eyes would be only emptiness could be beheld through the helmet, an emptiness that ever had Astaron welcomed and ever had welcomed him.

"SPEAK, MORTAL HAVE YOU DIVERTED THE RED DEATH?"

"You were going to kill thousands." The maester choked.

"KILLING IS MINE OFFICE. AND FROM ME, YOU HAVE BUT GIVEN IT TO ANOTHER."

"I can't prevent every death. But I am a maester. I serve men for maladies and the realm for chaos. Mine office is to spare." Red Death stared with its emptiness and bellowed the laugh of a hale warrior.

"YOU? SHOULD THERE BE AN OFFICE TO YOU? YOU HAVE NAUGHT FOR AN IDEA OF WHAT HORRORS AWAIT THE REALM FOR ALL THAT YOU HAVE LEFT UNDONE."

"What could it-What is it that yet remains undone?"

"ALREADY THEY SLIDE ONTO THE FROZEN SHORES BEYOND THE NORTH. YOU WILL DIE NOT KNOWING OF THEIR PLAN."

"Who are they?! What do they want?!" Astaron was shouting now, exploding into hysteria. Visions had shown him terrible matters before, true all, but naught that could be prevented.

"IMPETUOUS MORTAL, I SHALL LIVE TO THE END OF ALL AGES BUT NEVER SEE CHAOS LIKE WHAT THE SWORDS WILL CAUSE."

"These people are Swords?! Answer me!"

"MY WORDS ARE WASTED ON A MORIBUND MAN. WAKE!"

Astaron broke into a cold sweat as he threw himself out of bed. He had to get out. All contentment was gone, all willingness to face death erased.

"Had I run…" he stopped himself, words useless now. He eyed the lock on the cell and forced the dagger into the hole, happily breaking the mechanism. The maester summoned what strength he had recovered from sleeping and threw open the bars, not knowing which way to run.

With little and less time, there is much and more to do, he thought, sprinting down a corridor. To his knowledge, the barracks of the gold cloaks were on the western wall of the Red Keep, and, glimpsing no sunlight, he ran east based on the direction of the draft blowing through the dungeon. He came upon the way he entered, making a right turn to leave in an unexpected manner. He found himself running up a spiral staircase, turning right again and again as upwards he forced himself.

When he surfaced on a floor above, he recognized Traitor's Walk, and made to turn. He had been on the second level of the dungeon, only-

"It was a goodly run, maester. But you have not escaped."

Fear choked the very thought from his mind.


	16. Myren 3

MYREN

"Rufus Leek. Tell us where they went." Denys's words were curt and artless. Leek was an older man missing a leg. He stroked his grey beard as he responded.

"I've told you, Duskendale is the last place anyone would hide. The men have returned with no word about their location."

"Duskendale is the last place I want to be. I'm here because I think you're hiding them." He spoke his suspicions for true. Five hours earlier, the four of them had arrived to find almost immediately that the body of Colt Tanner had been discovered outside the city with no man about it. Counting any chance of finding him who had escaped to naught, Denys had Myren search for him in the prisons as he checked 'unfinished businesses'. 'Might be, 'he had said' they're holding the Sword for bounty.' Myren failed to find anything, searched the city and the surrounding area, returning to the castellan to see if aught had been learned.

And there they were.

Well, they but for Coliete, who hung bound to the ceiling in Denys Darklyn's room. Darke had boasted of it not an hour ago.

"What about Duskendale bars you? An unwise man might think you wanted."

"An unwise man would ask. To whom did you grant ingress?" He spoke the question softly, but the force was well understood.

"Half a hundred passed the gates." Before Denys could reply, Brown Courser strode into the grand doors of the hall of Dun Fort, in tow no fewer than three guards dragging a man behind them. To Myren's observation, he was middle aged, perhaps nine and thirty or forty. All the hair about his head was a simple brown as well as his eyes. He stood quickly, dusting himself off.

"What is the meaning of this, Sword?" Denys asked, interested, putting the interruption aside.

"The guards say this man was riding with a suspicious man- a maester." Leave it to men to find learning suspicious, thought Myren. "They say outside the city, the man got off his horse and switched to the cart of another man."

"Who was it?"

"The cart driver is described like Colt Tanner. The guards say he approached and they allotted both ingress." Myren might have stopped to wonder if the sellsword's speech improved in the presence of an unlettered castellan, were her thoughts not on the story he told.

"Colt and the maester are both abest, though." The implication the woman left unsaid was that with the body gone as well, the scholar may have had come to collect it. The implication escaped Brown Courser, who simply shrugged with his arms at the ostensibly useless comment. Cocksure.

"The lord can tell us naught. We should ride." He added in quieter tones to Darklyn once the leader told the castellan in a peremptory tone that he would catch his escaped criminal, and would know who had hidden whom.

"What has Darke done with the captive?" Denys asked of the Sword, who knew naught.

"He concealed her in your room." Myren interjected. As something of a Hand or advisor, it was her lot to express truly, but not to directly and unhelpfully criticize a man of her rank, however much she detested it. Denys found Darke endearingly daring at times. Myren found him stupid at times. "He then expressed a will to collect information in the Seven Swords." Like as not he's actually seeking a naïve tavern wench, she thought.

"You mean he strung the maid up in the most painful possible way and drinks himself to drowning." Close, but not quite, thought the advisor.

It was odd to her that Darke did not drink his weight in sour Dornish red or the pale green of Selhorys Denys enjoyed at times. No, if either man was a sodden one, it was the elder.

Denys decided there was naught to do but seek out the maester; he specifically asked Brown Courser to set off for King's Landing, assuming it was a likely stopover for aught in flight. Whether the scholar convinced or captured Colt Tanner was uncertain, but it made no matter, as Denys told Myren. Her orders were to reconvene with Darke, untie the maid and he would find them there after checking with the blacksmith who made 'the box'.

"There you are." Waters announced when Myren walked into the Seven Swords. There you are.

She sat opposite him and waved the serving girl away when she came by.

"What news have you? Or have you done naught but woo?" He chuckled and began.

"The maid said there was a maester in here with Colt."

"That much we know."

"She said he was glancing about, flitting his eyes here and yon. Men have come in to pocket the odd trinket and had the same look about them, she says."

"He feared being recognized."

"Like as not, he's using some assumed name. The girl at the ledger said she heard naught from him, Colt simply revealed the key and she knew him for an owner." Darke, paused, considering. "Perhaps he is no true maester. No man questions the intents of one so learned."

"There is no way of saying for true, but it makes no matter. What does is where they went."

"You know as well as I what the body contained. The destination was the God's Eye. But we were on the cliffs as they left, if the time of their departure ledger girl gave me is true."

"We would have crossed paths had they gone far to the north."

"They left without alarm if men about town are to be believed. No man suspected aught."

"Keep it that way. If the Red Death is to be recovered, it must needs be recovered in secret." This was the chaos that Denys had for one and twenty years planned. This was the chaos that would start a new era.

"Of course. Now, up to the room." As the two of them marched upstairs and freed the maid from her bonds on the ceiling, Darke informed her of 'the box', a device Denys had ordered from a silent smith in preparation for the death of Escanane Waters. It sounded like an iron coffin with a frivolous glass shield over the face of Waters. It is like as not the smith just threw it in because it was cheaper than making it all iron. Coliete gave a muffled scream upon seeing Myren and as she began to untie the maid as Darke held her aloft, it appeared she was no northron girl at all. Her hair was more brown than black, her eyes dark, and Myren wondered what sort of name Coliete Stitch was.

"Did Darke hurt you aught?" Myren asked once they had her down from the ceiling and the sellsword stepped out to look out for Denys.

"No, but he wanted to. I could see it, Myren, I swear." If he wanted to, sweetling, he would have and then I would sigh as I cleaned blood off a ceiling and naught else would be varied.

"Don't worry, child. Darke only hurts people when told." And when not told otherwise, and you're lucky he was.

"Why are you- why is Denys Darklyn keeping me?" Well, it is like as not he will end up using you as a hostage.

"There are people out there, Mother have mercy, who worry over your safe return. Where do your parents live, Coliete?"

"My mother and father ran a silver trade in Torrhen's Square. Did they send a raven?"

"No, but I could send one to them." Whenever the one from Vaesyr arrives, that is. "Why did you leave Torrhen's Square?"

"I know naught about what happened there, but I was put in a group of refugees. We went by cart to a small city called Barrowton."

"Who was with you?"

"There was a girl named Barta there already, Motte was from farther in the North. Assana Snow came with me and we saw Reynisi Frey come from the south later that day."

"What happened after that?"

"Well, this really cruel knight who said he was a Dreadfort man showed up with an army." It was an army to you, girl. It was a small scouting party to aught else."Barrowton had sent her best knights away and the elders were left." The girl stopped talking and began to sob.

"Did they help you escape?" Myren prompted.

"They tried. They- they sent all the children- in different directions- The Black Dagger rode them down- it was awful-" the maid descended into hysterics and Myren decided to resume later. Perhaps on the morrow, she thought, the girl will have stopped crying. As Darklyn's assistant opened the door, he and the sellsword were already engaged in conversation.

"What was the description from the porter?"

"He told me the man was his age or near as much as makes no matter, himself nine and thirty. Wore simple robes of brown and red, as fits one of his station. Looked to be losing his hair and brown eyes, but that's all the man would tell me."

"What was his name?" Myren asked, interjecting.

"Bailton of Oxcross." Denys responded, stepping into the room with Darke. An odd name for a maester, thought Myren, as most omit their homes.

"When does word arrive from Vaesyr?" she asked, thinking of the message about which she lied. "I have been expecting his raven days now."

"Colt did not receive any raven, else it would still be in the room. Considering, assistant, that he is our permanent outpost of Duskendale, he would have received some word if there were any to be had. It is possible Vaesyr has decided to keep collecting, and also that he returns in hours. Whichever it is, we know naught and can do naught. Since both Harrenhal and Duskendale now have dead Swords, it will be you who will remain here to receive word. "

"You would have me wait?"

"I would." Denys finished, his word final whatever Myren's outrage.

"And just what will Darke be doing?" she asked.

"Darke's place is here. Much and more of our ravens are roosted at Harrenhal, I shall be there anon. We need a new outpost in that haunted castle, and soon shall I recruit one." He meant every word of it, of that much Myren was sure. Denys left at once, Darke leaving soon after, to Myren's presumption seeking evidence of Colt's death. It was a lesser known custom of sellswords, and had Brown Courser not been sent to King's Landing, he would almost certainly be looking for blood or hastily discarded weapons.

"Myren, who's Colt?" came the inquiry from the maid once the others had gone.

"Colt Tanner was a brave knight who volunteered for Denys Darklyn." He was a killer, mostly for cravens who would be rid of their wives. He loved gold and clean kills.

"Why is he helping him?"

"Oh, sweetling, Denys Darklyn is not so mean as you think. We but endeavor to expose the misdeeds of the crowns." We are going to kill them. When we find Escanane's body, we shall spread the disease from King's Landing to the Land of Always Winter.

"Oh…" The girl responded, trailing off. "I just… miss my friends. I wonder if they are alive now. I can never be sure since Denys…killed Assana." Well, that damnable sellsword left that detail out.

"What? I had not known." I had not cared.

"When we stopped at Sasera's house, most of us went down to the Basement. We were told that at night, a man named… Denys Darklyn and two of his hands…attacked us." She spoke through sobs and Myren nearly pitied her. "He… killed Assana…forced her into…the fire!"

The maid's last words were a shriek. She turned and pressed her face against the bed, unwilling to talk, most like for days. Myren sighed and reluctantly kissed her head. The hand of Denys Darklyn rose. Are all men of Duskendale cruel? Darke said he was named in the region, it made sense enough to her, Darkes and Darkwoods were abundant in Duskendale. And at once, all fell into place.

For a man to have power, he must be cruel.

For her to have power, she would be ruthless.


	17. Straachan 2

STRAACHAN

After days of trudging in the snow, the man at arms reached Fairmarket, setting down whichever girl he had on his shoulder. A knight, he bore her weight gladly for the greater weight on his heart if she were to fall to the freezing wind. It had been too soon since Sasera had died, too soon before that his youngest charge. Barta and Motte braved the winds, but Jaehaerys Storm froze in the snow, the ground too ice-hard to inter him. It had been a sharp winter, and the old man had seen his last. He had been unfit for travel, and Denys Darklyn's man had struck him on the skull. No man of his age would have lived.

With the passing hour Straachan's determination to kill grew.

"Motte. I need to know your true name."

"Of course, Ser, but wherefore?"

"My name is Motte for true. Galbart Glover is my father, and he chose not to give me a bastard's name." He chose well.

Straachan's thoughts were interrupted by a calling out from a knight on horseback. To him, the man looked to be from the east, perhaps Braavos or Myr, but there was naught of which he could be sure.

"What is your name, Ser?"

"Men call me Straachan. What is yours?"

"I am Damon Vypren. Who are the girls?"

"These maids are refugees in my custody, but it makes no matter. What is your business with me?" Straachan had little and less time to bandy words and play the question game. From time to time it irked him that there were those who made their fortunes this way.

"I investigate the death of Catelyn Blackwood."

"I've never heard of her."

"Of course you haven't. But you're the second mysterious, unannounced arrival to Fairmarket in the last few weeks. The previous one was a maester I have since cleared of suspicion. He is free to return any time. If you are equally innocent, the same will be true for you." He was an ostensibly just man, but Straachan was a man grown and armored. He had long since learned all men behaved as such around him. It was only when he was alone with a woman or child or dog that an ostensibly just man would be proven just.

"I misbelieve you. Have you Frey blood?" Straachan could see it in his black hair.

"My mother came from the Twins, but it is no business of yours."

"Go back along the Green Fork and ask if aught a man saw a knight and a maester returning a maid named Reynisi Frey." Straachan calmly walked past the man, but turned again. "You said you interrogated a maester. Where is he?"

"I forced him to leave Fairmarket in the back of a Dornishman's cart. His horse I tied outside the Inn of the Kneeling Man. If it lives, you may have it." Straachan nodded in acknowledgement. In his mind, it was better to say nothing when nothing remained. Astaron, he knew, was of a different cloth, but that was simply his way. He untied the starving dappled grey upon arriving, his mind troubled with the knowledge that had Jaehaerys's roan colt not been eaten from the inside by a parasite, the old man might have lived. He walked the beast out into grass uneaten, the snow undisturbed and thought more on his friend. Storm was an honorable and courageous man, willing to not only lie to Euron Greyjoy, but aid Straachan in getting the girls to safety. Might be, thought the man, serving under this Stannis Baratheon has that effect on a man.

"Ser, where are we going?" asked Barta from behind him. It was the first he had heard from her, ordinarily she preferred to speak quietly with her commiserates.

"That's a good question." Straachan responded, thinking. "Fairmarket seems a safe place. What say you?"

"I am not sure." She replied softly, turning her eyes in a large circle around him. "The innkeeper used to say that nowhere was safe." He was right, thought the armored man somberly. It was never truly possible to be safe, some larger army could at aught opportunity sweep the better part of the seven kingdoms.

"Barta, there are people in the realm who would hurt you, but also those who would protect you. It makes no matter where you go, but what men that are there. Mistrust most."

"I…the innkeeper said I should mistrust all." Straachan kneelt and put his hand lightly on her shoulder, aware Motte could hear.

"When a man says to you that naught should be trusted, it is for love." Barta was in tears, as well as Motte behind her.

"Why would he do that? Women would never love him, they would always suspect him, they would…"

"To a man who loves you, the choice is clear. He will tell you not to trust men. He knows it is not true that they will not all hurt you, but if what must needs be done that you are not hurt is to say falsehood, he will. To him, it makes no matter what men or women think when the price of their goodwill is your safety." Barta offered no answer and Straachan understood. It was much and more to take in, and it was like she had not heard this before. Half men were ever concerned with their reputation and that he half understood, but a full man places doing good before.

It was the last thing he would say to her.

Much later the sun was setting they were on the road. Motte sat astride the horse's back, calmly staring out where sky and land meet. Straachan walked beside her, lost in thought. Had he done well? He failed to prevent the death of Asanna Snow, as well as Sasera. But to her parents he returned Reynisi, safe as a small maid can be in this realm or any other and Barta chose to remain in Fairmarket. Coliete was captured and taken a place the gods alone know, but she yet lived, as far as Straachan knew. Whatever cruel fortune she awaited, she lived, else the killer would have killed her.

"Death is not the worst of evils." He spoke quietly, unable to be heard. Perhaps he had failed.

No, it was not over yet.

The fate of Asanna was a terrible one, but Coliete's remained to be seen, perhaps the kindest or the cruelest reality in her life. There was a choice to make, but it was not his alone.

"Motte. I shall think no less of you whatever you decide, but tell me for true what you believe. Do you swear before your gods?"

"Before old and new I swear." It occurred to him she spoke like a little lady.

"I know naught of Astaron's whereabouts, or even whether he breathes or no. Of Coliete, I can reason she lives, but know little and less of her captors save of the man who took her."

"What do you ask of me, Ser?"

"Whom must we save?" Motte stared down at the maned neck of her mount.

"I cannot choose between two lives…"

"I'm sorry, but I'm asking you to choose between three. I'll do everything I can, before all the gods, but I know this realm from the short time I have fought here. I can find Astaron. I can drop all my other duties like a half man and deliver him, should he live or bury him else. I can save Coliete. I know with certainty where he was going."

"Where?"

"He was bound for Duskendale. Little and less doubt remains that he was at Oldstones and was riding along the Green Fork. Also, it's like as not the rumors are true. The Swords Sable are back."

"Who are back, Ser? I misunderstand."

"About a year ago, a pack of sellswords working with the ironmen landed in my home. My people were unable to fight them all and surrendered after many had died, but they kept killing us. We fought bravely, and would rout them eventually, but our men at arms including myself needed to be sent far afield when the women and children boarded the last large boat. They have like as not already returned, but what they would find only the gods know." Straachan paused, wondering how best to put it.

"Will the sellswords come back?" Motte asked before he could finish.

"No. Jaehaerys believed, when I told him of what had happened, that they were part of a conspiracy called the Swords Sable, led by a man calling himself Denys Darklyn. It was he who killed Asanna, and I am ten in ten parts sure we had the misfortune to encounter his man." There was silence between them for what seemed to Straachan a moon's turn.

"Ser Straachan?"

"Yes, Motte?"

"You said you could rescue one in three."

"You are the third. I can take you to any one of the northron lords and each would happily put you up, each would make a place for you within his own family."

"But…if you did that…you would have to take me north. Astaron and Coliete are far to the south..." The comprehension was clear in her voice, but the maid's face did its due as well.

"Motte, I should never ask you to make this choice." Straachan assured her. "But if there were aught else I could do, before the gods I would." He could see Compassion and Fear play across her face like dogs flipping and twisting in a fight. She turned her face downward and her long hair eclipsed it. He said nothing, and allowed her to consider it as she rode, the grey animal trotting beneath her.

The sky faded from orange to black. The snow fell all the more heavily as he tied the horse at the moribund encampment outside Raventree. After the Kingslayer took the castle and a hostage, it was only a few of Bracken's men waiting around for their lost gold.

"Where are we, Ser?"

"One of Robb Stark's greatest allies lives here. His name is Tytos Blackwood, and he has just lost a daughter, if ever you wished to leave this life I lead, here is the place." He helped her dismount. "Peace awaits you, Motte. I would never endanger you, but whether I will it or no, you have become a part of this and you may have your say."

"I have…thought about it, Ser. Whatever the gods will is beyond my knowledge, but you speak the truth." She chose her words carefully, looking from the castle to Straachan.

"And what is your decision?"

"There is naught I would not do to aid you, but there is naught I can do."

"Motte, I would guard you and guide you-"

"I would be a hindrance, Ser Straachan."

"You give me courage, my lady, with the passing hour as the realm despairs, you stand aright."

"And what would happen to you if I died? Know now that I am little and less to boast of virtue. Men like you have courage, but with me about, you must ever fight less fiercely, thinking of the terrible things that would happen to me if you died." Straachan did not deny it.

"I accept what you have chosen. The knowledge that you are safe will ever lift my spirits."

There was naught else to say.

With Motte admitted into Blackwood's fold, under an assumed name after a discussion with Tytos Blackwood himself. The man's sigh and words of gratitude were clear in Astaron's memory as he led his horse to an abandoned tent and removed saddle and bridle that the beast might sleep. Bracken's man who had stayed here had left a fifth of a bottle. As Straachan chanced a swig, he guessed it was spiced wine. How long has it been, he thought, is it a moon's turn tonight?

Perhaps I could have asked Motte if she had decided about Astaron and Coliete. But as he thought of it without her, he would not have done a knight's doing to take a maid with him. His judgement had been clouded, and it would be for the better she was within and he was without.

All the same, she had been like a daughter to him. He wondered if Astaron felt the same.


	18. Talowo 3- The Land of Always Winter

TALOWO

The ship had been a fast one. It went leagues and leagues in a single day, to the point where as the days passed, Talowo wondered if they truly sailed through the Narrow Sea or if the continents were moving. He concluded that it made no matter but still had his mind wandered to the lands that seemed to rush by the boat as though in some great hurry to leap off the edge of the world. But for all his jumbled thoughts, perhaps addled by seasickness, it amounted to naught as they had stepped onto the shore and Talowo decided that if Westeros was moving for true, he too was now moving.

And so, once more, it made no matter.

As the group established the encampment on the frozen shore, it became clear to Talowo how much thinking was involved in the endeavor and how little he was allowed to do. That brief time on the ship when he was treated near an aide to Vaesyr was long gone, and the return of menial tasks had come. He knew that should he suggest something, he would lose a finger. Westerosi will never give up their punishments, and they will give up their rules a day later, he thought. But then, were I in charge, would I truly be more kind?

"The scouting party will consist of five men. The rest may wait for a raven here." announced Vaesyr. "zo Yzzraq, Six-finger, bring the prisoner forward." The Yunkish slaves dragged a pale man through the snow from near the tree line. "Hraen, tell these men what you told me." Six-finger released his captive, who stood and spat before speaking.

"I am a native of these lands and a free man." He is a fool if he believes there is naught we can make him do. But then, he is Westerosi.

"How well do you know this land?" Vaesyr asked, ignoring Hraen's implication and keeping his verbiage simple. The Valyrian, Talowo knew, was capable of the most confusing calumny and prolix prose, but could also, as he would demonstrate, subtly mock a man by his comparatively simplistic tongue. Whether the northron man caught on or not, Talowo was unsure. He may well simply not care.

"I can tell you where the game is. Might be I can tell you what you really want."

"What is this place called?"

"You've landed on the shore of Shivering Wood. And that was your first mistake."

"We seek a large frozen lake in the shape of a dragon's tooth. Where is it?"

"Scale Lake lies seven hundred miles north of the wall, five hundred along the coast from here."

"And you say you will take a small party there?"

"Yes. The free folk like it not when armies march about. They may kill us all the same."

"You two-" Vaesyr started, turning to the Yunkishmen who dragged Hraen forth"-will accompany Hraen. Fain would I be so improvident as to send you without Nailskin. And an interpreter would serve better than a raven should you find any epistles, given our prior attempts to communicate by fat, flavorful, fatuous bird. Talowo will serve." The mentioned boy froze upon hearing his name and at once wished his skills were unrecognized as before, or even that he had none. But all appeals would be without use before Vaesyr, and he accepted his lot. Such is the way of Summer Islanders, he thought. Such is our way.

Nailskin said nothing at the mention of his name, merely standing and ambling over to prove his mettle at whatever contest was available. Talowo reluctantly followed him to the edge of the dark wood, where the Yunkish slaves had already gathered resources.

"There is to you a bow and a paucity of arrows, a fortnight's rations and cloaks of skins."

"Does my lord want for skins?" replied zo Yzzraq, not understanding Vaesyr's tone.

"Fain would I expect you to survive a moon's half turn. At a grueling pace, the trip will consume half a hundred days." zo Yzzraq turned and pulled a fishing net from his pack, emptily gesturing it in Vaesyr's direction. The Valyrian sighed. He knows that they have all he can spare, thought Talowo. He is certainly no Essosi.

When the party set off, it was no long time before each tried to establish himself as leader. First Hraen suggested they fish at night while each man was on his watch. The others begrudgingly agreed, but countered that if aught a man would fish, he must needs return the pike to the water. Talowo simply found it odd that they all spoke the common tongue of the Seven Kingdoms well enough to argue.

The second attempt belonged to Six-finger, who reminded Talowo at one juncture that in Meereen, he had been a Son of the Harpy, killing officials without aught a man knowing until the following day. Nailskin simply stared, unimpressed, as perhaps was his right, thought Talowo.

As the man's name suggested, his former days of pit fighting forced him to drive nails through his skin, mostly on his arms and chest and some on his legs. From a distance, he might have appeared well tattooed. Up close, there was little and less doubt he had killed and would do it again. It was not as though the man never spoke at all, that would have been nothing more than a transparent attempt to appear mysterious. He talks not enough for an Essosi, thought Talowo.

On the third attempt, zo Yzzraq took a more subtle approach, walking somewhat in front of the other men, including Hraen. The free man let this go on before reminding the Yunkish rapist that any number of his kin could suffuse the frozen beach from the trees and tear through his sandy brown skin with wooden weapons.

"They wouldn't do the same to you?" he asked.

"Not necessary. I would join them." And so, Hraen returned to his place at the front in a few strides, and was not challenged for some time after that. He lives not in the Seven Kingdoms, but this one is most certainly a Westerosi.

When the Meereenese pit fighter did establish himself, he did so with conviction. It happened days later when the party had caught some thirty fish yet Hraen insisted they would stay close to the ice shore, rather than taking the trail in the wood to their left. He told them there was little and less for hunting, and the trail would not hurry their trek greatly. Nailskin turned all the same. The free man stared at him, but made no real attempt at keeping him. As he disappeared into the trees, zo Yzzraq turned, only to be stopped by Six-Finger.

"Let him go. He's a fool to walk off without a guide. We know naught about the trails."

"We are fools to let him go. He's a trained killer."

"I have killed eight men in my day. The first was a killer, the last, a holy man."

"I killed the whore I raped. It makes no matter if you kill someone who never foresaw it."

"Fight, then." Hraen offered simply. Talowo sighed internally. If there were one thing Essosi never did, it was settling disputes with blood. Of course, no man did the like in Tall Trees Town, so who was he to criticize?

The Yunkish left the Mereenese to his fate.

Time passed and Hraen held his arm with an open hand, gesturing with the other to the woods. An animal something like a black lion with streaks of white crouched in the snow.

"There's another, like as aught, a mate. Shoot this one and the other will pounce."

"What sort of beast is that?" Talowo asked, staring intently.

"It's a shadowcat. The crows drive them from the Frostfangs." The explanation made little and less sense to the Summer Islander.

Six-finger readied an arrow. He had been a fair shot, as he would tell aught a man, but a man of eight and forty years seldom had eyes like a raven's. The beast drew closer, perhaps realizing it had been seen.

"Where's the mate?" Six-finger whispered to Hraen, if loudly.

"She waits." The beast hissed as it neared, encircling the four of them. A thousand questions flooded Talowo's mind. Why does the shadowcat allow itself to die that its mate can take its kill? What would we do apart from shooting it? Why does its mate hide better?

"Kill them." All of the boy's questions were answered at once.

The shadowcat sprang forward and Hraen leapt out of its way, laughing. zo Yzzraq seized the predator and attempted to hold the neck, but it was a surprisingly strong animal given its sleek body. The claws flashed and the Yunkishman howled as Six-finger released his arrow, only to find the missile stopped by Hraen's pack, filled with frozen fish. The wildling turned toward the trees and walked off in the direction of the trees. Talowo threw himself on top of the cat, expecting to be thrown off immediately, but Six-finger held a knee to his back as he nocked a second arrow. A stone flew from the wood and struck him on the skull.

"_Not necessary. I would join them."_

The harpy's son froze, head throbbing as the shadowcat threw Talowo and turned to kill him with a swipe of its paw. Returning to zo Yzzraq, it learned it should have never turned its tail. The Yunkishman seized an ice chunk from where it had broken and held it above his broken body as the predator opened its gaping maw to eat his heart. He forced the ice in the beast's throat, seizing it in the back of the head to prevent a struggle. Talowo, bloodied and with no wind in his body, staggered over and gouged the animal's eyes with his fingers, all sense leaving him.

In zo Yzzraq's last heartbeats, the shadowcat died. The Yunkish attempted to force out a few words several times, mostly in Ghiscari. But his wounds were devastating, his organs had been gouged out by the beast and his neck near torn in equal parts. In the way his people would, Talowo took pieces of wood and rubbed them furiously, anger fueling his strokes. Hraen would never have been trusted on the Summer Islands. These Essosi were fools, he thought.

In minutes a flame sprang forth and the boy gathered wood for the bodies of the two men. He decided on one pyre for matters of time, and dragged the corpses onto the blaze. Since the pack the wildling carried off contained not only most of the fish, but the pole as well, Talowo resolved that it would be best to set up the fish traps before the darkness fell.

Worries clouded his mind as he finished them an hour later. Would the winter fish fall for the same trap as they had in his home? Would the fish be under the ice at all, or had they simply left the frozen shore for warmer waters? He set up the traps all the same, taking up the bow he had salvaged from the corpse. Taking a paucity of shots at small animals darting in and out of view, he accepted his lack of skill and that he would need to move in close to kill. It would not be until days later of walking north that he would attempt to shoot for true.

A silhouette of a man walked deliberately before him in the distance, in his direction. Talowo first shouted for the man to stop, already nocking his arrow. Not even slowing, the target allowed him to see more and more features. He was a fearsome sight, all his body tattooed. He had heard of something like this happening, but never in Westeros. He shouted once more as he raised the bow.

"Now!" Instead of ceasing his approach, the man threw a large object, which hurtled through the air toward Talowo, who missed it with the first arrow. By the time he readied the second, the object had rolled to his feet.

It was a head.

Covered in ice, and a red beard engulfing much of the face, Talowo still recognized it.

"Did you find the trail?" he asked. Nailskin simply nodded.


	19. Reyne 2

REYNE

Little and less could be seen of Ghazdan in the early hours of dawn. But disabused from the notion that there was a dragon or anything of the nature to be found in the Land of Always Winter, Reyne had lessened interest in pursuing the boy. If aught men said of Essos were true, it was nothing more than a haven for thieves and bed slaves and all men from there were one or the other.

It was to be learned that the other ship had 'like as not known about the doldrums' and as it unraveled, used them to its advantage, outstripping her father and his oarsmen. All the same, they approached the northron land and they approached it readily, three-cornered sails almost all into the wind, as though the gods themselves had designed they would overtake their pursuit. Perhaps, she thought to herself, the wood of the planks and mast and all manners of tools was cut from a godswood.

"Land awaits! Lower the sails!" came a sudden shout from the boy in the crow's nest. Even before her leg broke, she would never have dared to climb the entwining ladders of rope. Perhaps that was the boy's sort of courage, however little she wished for it herself.

"Mark the twain!" Hadverik shouted. A man shouted back with naught of what she could understand, and she moved on, finding Ghazdan in conversation with another boy on the deck. His name to her knowledge was Snow, and he wore his bastardry with lack of consideration rather than pride or shame, merely asking to be called Snow since his right name was much worse. She never asked what it was, but Ghazdan traded story for story, perhaps trying to extract it.

"Once, I worked in a party of slaves digging artifacts from the ruin of Valyria."

"Not possible. If aught a man has been to Valyria, he has never returned, not Gerion Lannister, not even the gods will look upon the Doom."

"All the same, I was there." Reyne could feel the tension between them growing, but there was something of respect about.

"Words are wind. If your 'party' has done aught apart from fucking Lysene whores, tell me this- How many years since the doom?" Ghazdan had to think before answering.

"The Tragaryen conquest happened about a century later. It's three of those since then, so four hundred years or near as much as makes no matter."

"How did men make Valyrian weapons?"

"Naught is known, you know that."

"What did you find then? Was it aught more than wet cunt?" Ghazdan looked ready to grab Snow and throw him overboard. He is not accustomed to sailor's talk, thought Reyne. Or perhaps he is simply angry.

"We found letters."

"You can't read. You told Harclay you were unlettered."

"Talowo could read much and more of Ghiscari and Valyrian. Now you tell me. What's your name?" Snow did not expect the question, but shrugged.

"It makes no matter. My father had no interest in me, and no right in leaving a name."

"Tell me. I'll tell you what the letters say." The Ghiscari boy responded, adopting a more direct approach to close.

"My name is Tyrion. Honor demands you never repeat it." At the name of the Lannister she had once seen at Winterfell, Reyne remembered how House Harclay had passed by and her father pointed out the dwarf.

"Tyrion? The dwarf from the fighting pits?" She could only wonder what he was doing in a fighting pit, the sound of which filled her head with visions of a dwarf in a ditch turning round and boxing men as they neared from all sides.

"What in the seven hells is the Imp doing in the fighting pits- what fighting pits-"

"In Mereen, Her Radiance Daenerys Targaryen held a melee like in the days of old. The day before I was taken by the masks and sold into Vaesyr's service, I was there." Clear to Reyne, his pause was intentional.

"Where was the dwarf?"

"He rode on the back of a pig, as befits one of his stature." The voice of Torrhen Harclay decisively finished their parley as it rang out, the boards crashing into the ice of the frozen shore. Eagerly, men rushed from the deck into the Land of Always Winter, continuing their pursuit on foot, Ghazdan among them, perhaps less eager. Reyne knew that she would for true not be so eager, her leg yet pained her and the air and land and sea were shivering together. Where before she had enjoyed the warm southron sea, this frozen land was far north of her home.

"Reyne."

"Yes father?" she said, turning about.

"I overheard a certain name. Where is Tyrion Lannister?" He asked the question simply, politely, softly. And yet she knew there was more behind it than simple curiosity.

"Ghazdan says he saw a dwarf in Mereen. What are fighting pits?" He sighed before answering.

"Essos has cruel customs. They keep slaves and bed slaves, who have no choice but to please those to whom they are sold." At the thought, tears began to well up in her eyes.

"But father, why do the crowns allow it?"

"They think it no wrongdoing, but it matters not. To Essos there is another tradition of cruelty. The slaves are forced into fighting like your mother was forced into wedding. Ask me not which is worse.

"They say he rode on the back of a pig."

"Reyne, have I told you about the death of Joffrey Baratheon, the boy king of the Seven Kingdoms, whose mother is like as not responsible for the death of Lord Eddard Stark?"

"Yes, father. You said a raven arrived about his death at a wedding."

"At that same wedding, two dwarves tilted on the backs of swine. Tyrion Lannister was seized under the charge of regicide."

"Why would he kill his own nephew?"

"Any man might have, had he seen Joffrey even once. He was a cruel boy, killing cats to see their entrails and unborn, and a poor king. Having once been Hand of the King, it is possible Tyrion desired promotion." He turned, but Reyne could not let him go without knowing his intent.

"Why, father?"

"A kinslayer is a kinslayer, Reyne. It makes no matter what nephew or daughter he kills. Many men burn to know where the Imp hides, many burn so fiercely they would give vast sums of dragons for even secondhand whispers. A lord must consider his keep, and there is the Wall that must be fed. A thousand dragons would do well."

Reyne, having nodded at her father's wisdom, strode silently off the deck into the snow. Whether she wished it or no, she was northron and this was her time. Every year the Starks warned all men winter approached, and every year they warned for true. But with all the wolves gone, who would warn them when winter would come once more?

She took it upon herself to build a fire, birthright or otherwise, it was her duty to father and hold to help in any way she could, surviving herself and praying to the nameless gods for a brother to carry on the name of House Harclay. Having collected sticks, Reyne procured a knife from the ship as well as her flint from the Flint Cliffs themselves. Once when her father visited Flint's finger to ask after Lord Robin, he took a piece out of the cliff face as a gift.

Striking against the tinder, Reyne wondered if her father had always wanted her to be practical.

Hours later, her father returned. She noticed not at first, he had learned long ago how to move silently on the hunt.

"That's an interesting way of setting a tent." He observed from behind her, causing her to jump. She had wondered whether to put the poles up and throw the furs over it, or to put the poles together in large pieces with the furs already tied. Reyne would learn that it made no matter, the she had not set the poles properly.

"Sorry, father…"she whispered as he helped her start again, kissing her on the head. The men would arrive a few minutes later.

"What have you?" He asked of them, his and Reyne's tent established.

"While you were hunting, we were hunted." Hadverik began. "Harkyen Swey was lost in the first volley of spears." Her father nodded with respect. To Reyne's knowledge, Swey had been a leader of sorts, but ever was he better on a deck than on a horse. "Perhaps two others I couldn't see were hit, but we drew back, shields up, more missiles fell from the trees. Weredden managed to strike one with a stone and the rest fled, like as not small in number."

"What became of she who was hit?" His friend briefly paused at Torrhen Harclay's knowledge that the spear-hurler was a woman, but Torrhen Harclay knew all.

"She bled. She could not hide from us with an open wound."

"All who murder must face the lord's justice. That is the way in the North."

"This is not the North. We questioned her. We killed her." Reyne noticed a brief sigh escape her father's mouth at the insolent interjection from Weredden. After the death of his brother, though, Reyne knew why her father was quick to forgive.

"What did you learn? 'We are a free people who can't read or live past five and ten or deter murder or rape or thievery in any way'?"

"She…used other words." Hadverik responded. "She said as well that the wildlings have seen an unknown encampment." The lord he addressed paused before answering, but there was naught else to do.

"At hunt's up we set out for the encampment. There will be no questions." He said definitively. Men set about gathering that which was needed, fish and game, as well as a few for wood. Reyne caught sight of Ghazdan as he went for a stream with two men, each carrying buckets. The only man she witnessed not at work was Weredden, who sat atop a crate of supplies and produced a whetstone from his belt. Slowly he took the wicked edge of his knife against the stone, honing from its past kill.

Hours passed and once more Reyne was with her father. She wondered if aught remained to discuss at the end of a day so short.

"You remind me of your mother, you know."

"In what manner, if it please you?"

"You have borne all that has happened without so much as a word of complaint." Reyne knew not how to respond.

"I do my duty to father and hold."

"All the same, times of hardship are oft when a man learns the most. What have you learned?"

"I must needs not be trusting of Essos and Essosi." she offered after considering.

"Ah, but many Essosi simply live their lives as we do. What apart from this?"

"One wildling can kill many."

"Ah, but why? She wore no armor and had no skill in combat, merely a spearwife throwing from the trees."

"Our men knew naught of her before she threw."

"Choosing the time and place of battle is the most important factor, Reyne." It was odd to her that he spoke sweetly of matters so grave. Perhaps he would ever speak sweetly to her; perhaps she would never be grown to him.

"Father, I also learned that bad things can happen to men who lose their brothers. Weredden was just sitting there, sharpening his hunting knife-"

"This is true, sweetling. Many and more wars begin over a death in the family. In time, Swey will learn to accept his brother's passing. If I knew him, he would have wanted to die fighting."

"But he was not…" Reyne answered slowly. "…he was just killed. Also he was killed by a woman." She spoke with hesitation, but she knew she spoke for true. For many men, there was great shame in dying at a woman's hands. At this, her father placed a hand on her shoulder and spoke.

"In the Land of Always Winter, women kill many. I know not what possessed them to overcome their natures, but this is the truth, Reyne." He stood and began walk away, perhaps needing a word. "But what do I know, anyway?"

You, father, know much and more. Torrhen Harclay knows all.


	20. Myren 4

MYREN

The raven came as Coliete minded the tables on the ground floor of the inn. The room was paid in continuance, but living expenses still made work necessary. And so, Myren chose this job for her supposed daughter, as the guise went, that she may keep an eye on the maid. It would not do to have Darklyn's hand allow his hostage escape.

As the bird, black wings against the night, flapped slowly down onto Myren's hand, the other ready with a treat, her suspicions ranged from Brown Courser in the south to Vaesyr in the east. She took the parchment from its talons and unrolled it, reading by candlelight as the bird roosted with the others.

_Colt Tanner, Sword of Duskendale._

_ My master, Vaesyr, expresses through me his gratitude for these wings you sent us to check our progress, for our raven was not long ago killed by an archer of House Harclay. In the Summer Islands, we respond to death with life and the master concurs, recommending this bird breed soon._

Myren doubted Vaesyr said anything of the sort. Valyrians held fewer gods than she, and certainly would respond with laughter to the traditions of the Islands.

_ We change our course, set now on the Land of Always Winter, letters in the ruins provided us with rumors of men who survived the doom and took with them much treasure. Should we survive, Vaesyr says we shall win this war beyond aught of doubt._

_Scribe Talowo_

Myren was unsure of what to make of the letter, the wherefore for sending it was uncertain at best. Perhaps Vaesyr wanted to not to be expected in Duskendale with his artifacts. Or, more like, perhaps he is a man and wants all other men to know what he does.

Satisfied with her second explanation, she made her way down to find Coliete. It would only be an hour before Darke returned from the 'job' he took up without asking, and it would be better for the maid not to be around him whenever possible.

"Upstairs, girl." No explanation was needed as Darke staggered in, putting little weight on his left leg. If there were gods, they were good had they made the keeper and the serving girls go off to bed an hour early.

Darke laid himself out on a table too small for the length of his body, disregarding what was on top already. He removed his greaves of boiled leather and his pants beneath them, exposing his fresh wound to the light of the candles. He began to cut away the dead flesh, face grimacing throughout, but there was much and more he could not reach, and his strength was visibly fading.

"Well, are you worth aught?" Myren briefly considered asking him if it were another child he killed, but thought better of it. Denys would know she deliberately refused to provide aid, what with Darke's blood on the floor, seeping into the wood. She made her way over and cleared a second table to better raise the injury. He had cut the greater part of it, and with his dagger she severed the rest away, disregarding his grunt. A tourniquet would not be necessary.

"What folly brought this about?" Myren asked as she cut a length of cloth to bind his leg. The wound would heal in a few days, it looked to be no more than a cut, perhaps with a rusted blade.

"The sliver man wanted me to kill his mother. She knew more than he'd have liked." He'd been fucking someone was like as not, thought Myren.

"A crone? She did this to you?"

"A boy. Smith's younger brother had a dirk, I shoved him to the ground and he cut me with little and less regard for his life. I killed him."

"Fool boy and fool bastard, you were not asked to kill the brother. Did the silversmith cheat you?" It might be I would have, knowing your fondness for killing children.

"I would have killed him. He knew." Darke could barely get words out, his consciousness fled quickly. "Where's…"

"Coliete sleeps. You will not be near her." Unable to protest that he was injured, Waters simply passed out as Myren moved him to a room she knew empty. The keeper would not care, and there was naught he would do if he knew. The room, farthest to the west and on the lower floor, had the sound of rushing water from where the livestock of Duskendale was made drink. Every occupant felt the need to make water at all hours of the night. The room could not be sold.

It had put strain on her back to move the sellsword, even without his armor of mail and leather. Remembering that on the floor, she went to fetch it, meaning to clean the blood from the floor as well. With the armor and its owner in one room, she set about scourging the red from every board it touched, but after an hour, there was naught to be done. Midnight had passed, and sleep was necessary.

Rising, Myren set the girl on the stained wood before aught else in the morning could happen. Coliete dutifully purged the last trace of blood from the floor, but by the time she was finished, men already sat at the tables and looked over from time to time.

"Sweetling, when you finish with the Dornish red, be sure and tell me or the keeper. There is work for you yet." Myren instructed the maid, though heard by the entire room. Sour Dornish red is like to be the closest to blood. She considered, pausing briefly while halfway through a table she cleaned. But how would I know? she asked herself, unable to come up with an explanation for vineyard knowledge.

Turning to the spare room to check on the sellsword, she heard groans emanating from the area and turned around, satisfied with his still being alive. If he keeps moaning, it will be a wonder should he keep calling himself a man.

The day was not one filled with work. The drinkers were seven parts in ten working that day, and neither stayed long nor drank much. Coliete finished her task and found herself with one and ten more, minutiae she missed while at work with Darke's blood. In minutes, though, it would make no matter.

Into the Seven Swords stepped a carapace of steel, eight feet tall and silent. A woman came in behind. She was older, garbed like a mummer would play a peasant, but all men could see she was noble at lowest. Gold hair was mostly concealed by her hood and at once Myren knew her.

She was the enemy.

Denys's hand rose from her work on the tables and strode over. I must play the fool.

"What business do a _crone_ and a fine knight like yourself have in the Seven Swords?" Her rudeness was both expected and excused by the queen. Aught a man with eyes to see could tell the patrons were visibly uneasy and beginning to leave slowly.

"We wish to speak with the keeper in private."

"The keeper knows all things of the gold changing men's hands. He knows naught of what you need to know, Mother have mercy on what that might be." Four eyes flitted about, seeing the tavern was nigh on empty. It was unknown what the eyes beneath the helmet of the knight did.

"Very well, then. Ser Robert, take her somewhere we can talk." The armored man obeyed without a sound. He moved to seize Myren, but she climbed up onto his shoulder willingly. It would be well the knights of Duskendale knew naught of her kidnapping. Any investigation into the event would be an investigation into Myren and Coliete. Ser Robert ducked low as he passed through the threshold, but did not save Myren from being scraped against the top. Foolish man. It makes me wonder if there's aught inside that helmet.

"What is this?" she asked once they reached the edge of the city.

"Have you aught idea who I am?"

"No." Of course I do. You're the hag who abuses her station and fucks like a bitch in heat.

"I am Cersei Baratheon, Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, the Andals, Rhoynars and the First Men." She said, removing her hood as Myren bowed to avoid the cunt seeing her smirking. "Rise."

"What do you desire, Your Grace?"

"A paucity of days have passed since my gold cloaks apprehended a maester behaving suspiciously. The men are sworn to secrecy for my part, but I was able to hear the word 'Duskendale' shouted many times and more through the walls."

"And the men of Duskendale told you to start at the Seven Swords." Myren surmised.

"What whispers have you heard of this maester?"

"He passed through Duskendale days ago, leaving to the south." A moment of clarity came to Myren. This is my chance to get her killed. "In drunkenness, he told patrons and serving women alike that enemies of His Grace hid in the ruins of Valyria. In haste to leave, he dropped this letter." Myren drew an old missive from Talowo, Vaesyr's new scribe, which described their findings on a certain day. It was fortunate that Colt Tanner had kept it in his room rather than burning it.

Denys Darklyn was wise to order her to remain in Duskendale.

"Valyria, you say? This is troubling news." spoke the queen as she read of Nightfall's twin, the sister of a blade of legend. "What is their cause to rebel against the wisdom of my son?" It might be that he's but a boy and a fool.

"They wish to usurp His Grace, they would give House Bolton the chance to take the North." Her Grace's royal visage puzzled. All men knew that Roose Bolton had turned his cloak, but little and less suspicion had arisen that he had motives apart from securing order in the realm under Joffrey, and then Tommen. And yet- Denys Darklyn knew. A moon's turn prior, the Dreadfort Sword sent a raven, informing him of the whispers between father and bastard son.

"Ser Robert, escort this woman loyal to the realm back where we found her. His Grace has urgent news and we must depart at once. The prodigious knight did as ordered, swiftly and without sound, setting her down outside the Seven Swords. Upon their departure, Myren breathed a heavy sigh of relief. The Old Queen had naught for beauty or power, but could have still informed on her and Darke had Myren not cast suspicion to the north.

Entering the inn, she found Darke up and walking, but like as not in no state to fight. Coliete carried wines and ales to tables, dutifully completing every task asked of her. It's lucky for her that the keeper hasn't asked her to do any hard labor, thought Myren.

Late in the evening, the sellsword was awake, discussing the details of 'a job' with a woman at a corner table, all other patrons gone. Myren sighed and turned for upstairs, where she found the maid sleeping. As she began to undress to her gown and sleep herself, she heard a wingbeat and a black feather fell on the ground before her. Looking up at the top of the door, a raven stared down at her, missive in its talons and blood red berry in its beak. Myren prized the letter free and read it completely.

_Myren-Darke-whichever one of you is reading, send this bird to Harrenhal and get to King's Landing. I've been using the name Nullob Brownmare.I think I know where Waters's body went._

The three disjointed, poorly written and straightforward sentences ended without any other notation. Knowing Denys would tell her to heed, Myren simply rolled the letter again and gave it to the raven for Harrenhal. If there were gods, only they knew whether he would arrive on time. Resolving to leave in the morning, she sat down in bed as the black bird flew.

There would be much and more to do on the morrow, but for the present, she felt Coliete's warm, sleeping, small body even without touching her. The girl rolled in sleep and reached out, Myren allowing the arm to rest on her. Would that I… no, perish it.


	21. Straachan 3

STRAACHAN

Raventree was long in the way behind. He had passed Harrenhal days ago, and presently resolved to take the kingsroad for a time, to turn east when he reached Sow's Horn. Duskendale was far, but with the grey horse, no distance was too great.

Straachan, having grown on an island, appreciated the beasts that would carry men hither and yon, seeming never to tire and asking only oats or grass to eat. With the past moon's turn being what it was, fain could he imagine life in Westeros without them. As his mount galloped along the road, a group of men walked north to meet him.

They were armored, but no swords were drawn, took sidelong glances at Straachan, but no words were exchanged. Brigands. They must be brigands.

Straachan had had more than his due part of brigands. Many were knights out of work or simply men with arms and no foreseeable profit in the life of a sellsword. To a man with skill, he thought, there were lives three: that of a knight, that of a sellsword and that of a brigand. As he thought about it, perhaps it was better such men were brigands, lest they influence the king's armies with their want of gold and base desires. A brigand was allowed no such deeds, but the kings and queens were willing to blind themselves before seeing what their men would do.

Turning his thoughts back to the road, the group of armored men passed, he saw trees to the west and reasoned that should the men before or any others await him, it would be where the forest was closest to the road. The brigands would run off the road once far behind him, then use a trail and perhaps horses waiting to reach the point before he would, perhaps join with more men, and ride out onto the kingsroad before and behind. But he doubted aught a brigand had created a plan that elaborate and continued on his way, reasoning that naught would attack him mounted and armored when easier targets took the kingsroad.

As he reached the point of ambush, he saw a lone woman walking from the other way, bearing a basket on her shoulder. Dismounting, he offered to aid her as she dropped the basket for its weight and bulk. Before so much as bending to take it from the ground, she gave a smirk and whistled, a halfman immediately rolling out of the basket and striking the grey beast in the rear with a whip. A stupid and ineffective weapon, the boiled leather whip was easily grabbed by Straachan's mail fist, allowing his boot to break the dwarf's ribs with impunity. As the men rushed out of the woods, he saw they were different than the men from before, as perhaps he should have expected. They wore naught about their heads save one man with a half helm and Straachan reacted immediately by seizing stones from the ground and throwing the first at the man in front, the second at the woman, who expected it less than the chance that she would ever walk again.

Three men now charged at him, horse having run off, he quickly decided to show them pain and set them aflight. The first wielded a nicked iron blade, Straachan took the slash in the ribs, knowing it would never go through the mail and cut off the man's ear with his own blade. As the third man attempted to aid him hit by the stone, not knowing of his death, the second was on Straachan with two daggers, slashing left and right. They were impossible to block, but he leapt back and took one in the shoulder as he stabbed for the heart, piercing the man's mail. The dagger wielder fell, and Straachan wondered what drives a man not to carry a shield.

A moiety of Straachan's energy was spent. The third man and first man, deciding it was lost, quit into the forest. He turned to look again at the woman and the dwarf, neither of whom had managed to chase down his horse, having run when the half man struck with his whip. The dwarf's ribs were broken and he was far too short to mount, the woman was taller, but without two good legs, would never force herself onto the beast. Straachan simply walked over without comment and told them their friends had fled, not merciless enough to kill either. Perhaps they have learned, thought he. Perhaps they will simply do the like again, but be injured. As they fled, he felt little and less strength in his arms and decided there was naught else he could do for their future victims.

He continued on the kingsroad, encountering naught of interest. Having passed the wood, all was flat and grassed with snow, small hills about him. A tired beast, the horse snorted, almost appearing grateful for the chance to graze and rest. Straachan did not waste the opportunity, a lone man does not rout four and a half without losing strength. As he lied on the snowy grass, he wondered if he could now have saved his home from the ironmen. He had his misgivings, but for spirit, he was certain that mysterious orders from the Seastone Chair would not so strongly motivate a man as the defense of his home. All that was knowable about the masque the longboat had been instructed to find was that it contained great power, great magic…

But that was the question. Astaron, had he say in it, would have told all men that magic was a fantasy, a dream, something not seen since before men were lettered. Straachan sighed. There was much and more of the known world that he had not seen, but he was nine in ten parts sure there were matters about which Astaron knew naught.

A paucity of hours had passed and Straachan rose, saddling again the maester's horse. How did Astaron come by such a fine beast? He must have been at Oldstones, where the men there were mounted, like as not.

His ponderous thoughts resolved, his mind turned to Coliete. Almost certainly, she was being held in Duskendale. From what Storm had said, there was suspicion about the city for the past three and thirty years, when Denys Darklyn, the first of that name, ceased returning taxation to the crown. Seeing a chance to remind all men who sat the Iron Throne, the Mad King eagerly rode out to resolve the matter swiftly and forcefully, resulting in his own capture. Only by the courage of Barristan the Bold was he rescued, but Aerys V took their conviction as a threat upon his release. The Darklyns were hunted and killed and House Rykker replaced them.

Straachan stared out into the distance. If ever were there aught a man to rebel against his house and his king, he would be a bastard and he would be a bastard from a Rykker's loins.

With the road beneath the grey animal's hooves, the pace increased. The rider expected to reach the subjected city within a fortnight, but his most pressing concern was to prevent their escape. The man that took Coliete was unlike to work alone, and still more unlike to leave her in the city for the length of her life. He would therefore approach the city from farther south than planned, perhaps Brindlewood. He would need to be able to see both the north and south routes from Duskendale as he approached. He had already considered the possibility of escape to the sea, but were that to occur, it would like as not be at King's Landing, where more ships meant a greater chance of concealing the flight from any man who might seek them. As such, he would turn south should he not discover aught in Duskendale.

On the road ahead, he spotted a group of king's men, possibly bound for the capital, more like out for gold and glory, much the same as a pack of sellswords. The distinction was beginning to escape him. He moved the beast to pass far to the right, intending not to arouse any suspicion. As he rode adjacent to them, he kept his eyes forward as they gave him those same sidelong glances. The horse cantered along, somewhat faster than their march, but not so much as to give rise to questions about his haste. In front of them, he was almost certain his troubles were behind him.

"You, there!" It seems not far enough behind, thought he.

"Ser?" He reared the mount around, retaining a backward trot. The previous owner must have been skilled.

"State your name."

"S-Sorrel, Ser. My mother always did fancy horses." Several of the men chuckled.

"Sorrel? Are you a bastard?"

"Of sorts. Men call me Sorrel Flowers, but it makes no matter." I should have pretended to be a Pyke, Straachan thought. They're bastards, but they're islanders all the same.

"What does a man so armed have riding south?"

"I ride for Duskendale. House Rykker seeks men loyal to the crown, and many and more of my friends live there." From time to time it bothered him how easily lies came to him when the situation demanded. The king's man did not hesitate before responding.

"I misbelieve you. Have you any gold?"

"A few stags, enough for provisions, naught more."

"Be on your way, then. Let no man say the king's men would rob a loyalist." It is more like that a king's man would not trouble himself over a modicum of coin. Had Straachan revealed all the dragons he had found in the saddlebags, they would doubtless conclude he had stolen it and confiscate it. He himself had no great desire for gold, all of it in the world would do naught to save Coliete. It had occurred to him that Astaron might want his dragons back, and Straachan had no intent to keep them, certainly not in that case.

Sow's Horn was in sight. There are two ways the captors could have reached Duskendale, he thought. They could have taken the Green Fork, through the Trident, portaged at the Saltpans and then sailed for Maidenpool. This effort would have taken much and more gold, and a ship besides. He briefly considered that they simply rode as he had been, they would have had a significant lead from the distance he and the girls had been forced to walk in the snow. Such a trek had expended more time than any route would have taken Coliete's kidnappers.

Deciding that his pursuit was either far ahead or close ahead but of uncertain destination, there was naught for it but to go to the highest point in the towerhouse at Sow's Horn, half believing he might see aught of use.

The stone towers of House Hogg were never destroyed in the world and for a few stags, the gatemaster was all too welcome to the idea of Straachan entering the highest room with no questions asked of him. It was a momentary wonder to him that the highest room was a maester's quarters and rookery, but made no matter. Out the window, he could see little and less before borrowing the learned man's spyglass, surmising the reason for such a high room was the better to behold the stars.

Through the instrument, he could see a small group of two or three trudging from the city. He knew not the visages, for they faced ahead, but the horse… it was a roan beast, not the same one the sellsword rode when he took Coliete… but the rider had it walking the same, that cautious, hastened trot- that was how he approached us, Straachan thought.

There was no time to offer second guesses. He sprinted down the spiral stair and leaped onto his mount once outside. The grey beast understood his haste, reared, and was off down the kingsroad. If the party riding south from Duskendale was what he expected, he must needs cut them off before King's Landing. Naught could be easier than hiding in a city so large, and they could easily sway the gold cloaks if the king's men from earlier were any indication.

He flew so quickly as his beast could run.


	22. Talowo 4

TALOWO

As they marched through the snow on the trail, Nailskin kept ever ahead of him, drawing farther forward whenever Talowo neared and drawing farther forward when Talowo slowed. The game reminded him of the snake spirit who held the trickster's monkey wife before him, ever backing away whenever the trickster approached. Yanas the trickster was on the verge of despair, but like a clever monkey he told the captor that a group of hunters was behind him. The snake spirit threw the wife of Yanas ahead of him, into the trap and she bounded away into the trees unharmed. He turned to kill the trickster but he as well had cleverly climbed away.

There were no tricks to use on a Meereenese pit fighter, though.

The two of them had avoided more shadowcats than Talowo could count and had traveled miles beyond his reckoning. The winds were harsh and biting, but Nailskin had no words of complaint, not even with his steely breast and arms subject to what frozen days and nights may come.

In this way, he was unlike other Essosi to Talowo's reckoning, boasting of their deeds and blaming aught else on whoever was at hand. zo Yzzraq and Six-finger would ever regale the men with their stories, but the pit fighter, whose experiences had been most proud of all, never spoke save a necessary word now and again. Essosi were also kneelers, as the wildlings would have it. Without authority about, they would speak of their crimes with the greatest pride, but were sinless when a rich man appeared. Once when zo Yzzraq boasted to the men of the whore he raped, all else grew silent but he as Vaesyr approached from behind.

_"Fain would I be so bold. But tell me, fool- should a man take a courtesan without ceding her due, has he raped or stolen?"_

And yet, here was Nailskin, with much and more of which to boast, but no proud words escaped his lips. Men knew he had killed. Men knew he had staked his life. And no man, authority or aught else, dared challenge him.

The trail faded and the two of them resumed the march on the frozen shore, an unnavigable sea with huge chunks of floating ice to their right, and a dense forest with uneven ground exacerbated by the snow to the left. Looking out over the sea, it was clear to the Summer Islander why the ship was forced to land far to the south, the ice in the water would have easily damaged the hull.

But as though the gods had some particular desire to spite Talowo's reasoning, a large sailing ship was halted far of the coast before them and as they drew closer, landing boats going from the ship could be seen.

With another mile passed, Talowo began to approach curious to see what manner of men they were, and what business they could have, but his companion halted his approach, raising an arm before him and reaching into the pack with the other, drawing out the fur of the shadowcat, wrapping it about himself and concealing many of the nails. They approached cautiously, Talowo's fingers drawing across the feathers on one of the arrows in the quiver. He was no archer, but ever since the other men died, he had taken up the bow and clothed himself with the pelts of the white foxes and rabbits.

A man among the sailors approached at the behest of another in the distance. He wore a confused expression on his visage mostly hidden by a black beard.

"You look naught like wildlings."

"We… are fishers… from Volantis." Talowo responded, not sure why he momentarily expected Nailskin to speak for them.

"What's that then?" the man asked, gesturing toward the quiver.

"Shadowcats can be dangerous. We mean men no harm." Talowo kept his answers simple, the Common Tongue was well known, but much time had passed since he formed the words himself.

"Does this man speak?

"His throat was burned many moons past. No words are asked of him, in truth." The man stared into Nailskin's eyes until he looked away.

"Tell me, fishers. Are you alone in the Land of Always Winter?" Nailskin shook his head.

"Other tradesmen accompanied us." Talowo elaborated. From the sailor's expression, he believed little of it, but walked off all the same, having decided the two of them had no significant force with them, most like. Do all Westerosi assume such things?

Nailskin led him farther, now keeping him close rather than far behind. Men who had landed began to establish a settlement on the beach, to Talowo, seemingly random collections of wood and rope and furs were righted into tents.

"Are these men…northron?" Why do I expect a response from him?

But his question was answered all the same. The captain of the ship, Talowo assumed to be informed of their presence, came out of a boat to speak with them. His hair was long and grey and drenched in sea water, beard much the same but somewhat green in color. He spoke with a fearful voice that demanded respect and response.

"My name is Geragon Pyke, bastard son of Quellon Greyjoy..." He looked over to his men. They had heard this line before. "and whatever Lysene whore was on hand at the time!" They laughed and Talowo nervously chuckled, wondering if all Pykes were like Essosi. "I sail and kill all day and drink and fuck all night. What have you to tell us?"

"We are simple fishers. We wish only to pass, greater things lie ahead." Geragon momentarily changed his expression but waved off whatever thought crossed his mind as idle speculation.

"We seek greater things as well. Have you heard the Song of the Old Way?" The Islander was uncertain as to how to respond.

"I have… heard _of _it." he said, decided. The captain grinned, revealing his black teeth.

"Then you shall hear it rightly before you die." He looked about his men and ordered one among them to sing it, a task he took up gladly.

"There was a long night in ages past

Men took flight from the stormy blast

Where'er a man asks has the Old Way gone?

The way of krakens and ships and song!

Then there came a kraken of iron will

Master of the sea, ne'er matched in skill

He would seize and rape but never kill

A maid or aught his seed would fill.

Rise from the depths young ironmen!

Take from the green lands once again!

The blood of your blood, will but ask

That a new ironman take up his masque!

For the kraken did once dare to go

To a land far north covered in snow

Where he died no man can know

But that his saga was ever to grow!"

Taking in the lyrics, Talowo decided that the Old Way was the most Westerosi of any way there was, and he knew little and less of the ways of Westeros.

"The Old Way is the one of the Iron Islands." explained the captain, noticing Nailskin's visible approval of the song. "Men think we ironborn are little more than pirates and raiders, but as I have said, greater things lie ahead for us as their kingdoms crumble, dishonorable men lying and sneaking their way into the thrones and the crowns, women abed with all manners of men to get some small degree closer to power. The men of the Drowned God are strong and honorable, and we feast, served by mermaids in the underwater halls should we fall in battle." Geragon looked as though he had given such a speech half a hundred times. "What say you, boy?" he asked.

"I… have never heard of a people so… strong." He responded uncertainly. This man will kill me without a thought. Ever must I watch my words.

"Good. Our ways are frightening to those unknowing. We would have naught else."

"What is this masque you seek?" asked Talowo, unable to contain his curiosity.

"As a man might have guessed, the masque worn by our ancestor was much like a gold kraken on a field, sable. Many men thought it would lie on a northron isle, but in the last score of years, we have searched them all, finding many and more about which the crowns of the green lands know naught." The Summer Islands are fortunate to be so far south, thought Talowo.

"With this masque, what will you do?"

"I shall as my ancestor unite the ironmen under my command. We shall take up the Old Way once more and strike terror into the hearts of men. For when the masque is mine, the Drowned God will have found favor with me."

"We wish you and your men fortune. We shall be off, should you have no further words with us." Nailskin and he began to resume their trek north but the ironmen watched them as they passed. If aught a man among them knew of their purpose, Vaesyr would find pirates at the opening of his tent.

It was well that the ironmen were behind them, but Talowo did not believe that the one meeting would be the last of them. There was little and less chance aught a man of them believed his lie about being a fisher. The path ahead was a treacherous one.

It occurred then to Talowo that little and less of the colors he knew from Tall Trees Town were present in the frozen wood. Even the green was covered by snow. There were no red fruits or clothes dyed with all shades, crimson, scarlet, gules, no, if aught could be seen of red, it was blood. The water between the ice to his right was a beautiful shade of blue, but where were the purples and oranges and yellows? Even the sun could not be seen for true, it was white, as if the gods held a sheet of ice between it and the earth.

A thought played across his mind. Is white a color? There are men who say a color must needs have to itself an individual glow, something to separate it from aught else. And there it was, glistening when the weak rays of sunlight touched it. On other days, there was naught to be seen, the howling winds and ice swirling about made it folly for a man to open his eyes.

Nailskin held out his arm, to stop Talowo in his wondering from wandering off its high banks into a wide river, ice flowing through it and as cold in movement as a lake in stillness. There was naught for it but to turn west, following the river's southron bank, until they reached the headwaters or some point of crossing. It would be unlike the wildlings to live this far north, men believed that only the white walkers dared travel to Scale Lake or beyond. Talowo wondered why they had not yet encountered any of these fabled 'others', as the Sunset boy had named them. Perhaps they expected no man to venture here. Though proven wrong, they were right in expecting naught. Only a Valyrian would be so bold.

Nailskin gestured wordlessly to a fallen tree and at once the Summer Islander understood, for as a boy he had made many a bridge the same way. The branches had fallen and the wood had rotten, but it made no matter. They would only have to cross twice.

With the great log in place, the pit fighter planted his feet solidly on its end, testing its strength with his. Talowo wondered if aught could survive such a test. The man crossed without great difficulty, the youth with a modicum more.

A sense of closure surfaced in Talowo's mind as the lake could be seen through the trees. They had come so far, three of the original party were dead, and even crossed paths with pirates.

At last, their journey was complete. He sat on a frozen rock, beckoning Nailskin do the same.

"Come, friend. We shall begin our return in an hour."

"Be not so certain, boy." Talowo's head immediately whipped around and he found himself face to face with three ironmen. "We knew you would lead us here. You told us." The man laughed and Talowo wondered if all Westerosi took such delight in deceit.

Perhaps they are not so unlike we, these Sunset men.


	23. Reyne 3

REYNE

The whole of the encampment was up and shouting when the Essosi were captured. There were six and sixty among them, all colors and voices Reyne could imagine. As she approached, nervously, shaking in worried excitement, the men were restrained by three lengths of rope. The first held a moiety of Ghiscari and another of Yunkishmen. The races were present on the other two, but not in such great number. The second contained a score not identified by the maester, one Norvoshi and one Westerosi. The final tether rounded each neck with particular pain, for these men were slavers. The leader among them claimed to be Valyrian, the overseers were Yunkish. Two older men were Summer Islanders, dark men with grey hair in small curls.

"In the North, a man is to be killed for slavery, and killed by he who pronounces his death. My name is Torrhen Harclay, and I shall hear your last words before I kill you." One by one her father killed Yunkish and Ghiscari alike with his axe, sparing none but hearing all. Many were slaves, many fathers but they were killers as well. Reyne remembered the previous day with clarity. She would never forget.

In midmorning, the pale sun had only climbed high enough for a man to see but a few feet before him. Reyne gathered wood silently as silently the Essosi crept through the trees. They leapt from their hiding onto the shore, not all at once, but one by one, concealing their multitude as her father shouted for a few men to respond in kind. The first of the slaves were killed with precision and ease, but the first men sent out against them were soon surrounded, and killed as the remainder of the northmen came to their aid. Reyne dropped the bundle and started for the ship, but felt a man's arms go around her middle and lift her. Almost immediately, he was killed by an arrow in his neck. She wanted to stop and wonder why, but her duty to father and hold was to live, and live she would not should curiosity take hold during an attack. She made for the ship, as best she could with one strong leg, madly looking over her shoulder at horrific scenes of northmen being killed by those hiding in the trees.

As soon as Reyne was on board, she was quickly escorted belowdecks where she had only to hear the sounds of slaves with the odd Valyrian weapon or otherwise killing and dying. Why do men do this? Must needs I ever mistrust them?

But there they were, bound and unmoved. Not a man of them but flinched in his restraint, even when his head was to be lost. Men may stare at their deaths and not blink, why do they not so boldly go into dishonor? Is it worse for a man? She would think on it more. Presently, though, her father spoke.

"You who ordered this assault, what say you?" He addressed this question with his weapon pointed at a white haired man, a Valyrian. He was not granted leave but to stand, and stand he did. He stared into her father's eyes of ice as though through them his soft heart could be seen.

"Aught I have done I have done for my ancestors and progeny. Men like you know naught of this, my family was strong before yours existed."

"Then it is a shame that it dies with you." Reyne's father raised his axe and brought it down, it the weight of law, it the weight of justice that kills all men who have broken the prior. He set about hearing the remainder of the Valyrian's officers, many and more of them with similar rationale. The axe never cared.

In her heart, Reyne knew her father's was not at peace.

The time of judgement came for the last group, the Norvoshi allowed words first. He rose with his hands behind his back, the water behind him. When he spoke, he pled for his life with an easy cadence, reminding her of Ghazdan, whom she had not seen that day. Almost as if summoned, the Ghiscari appeared from the woods, bearing with him weapons of northmen and slaves, dropped by the dead. Ever was he working, that boy.

"The last of you were mere accomplices." Her father began. The first had been hands, the second heads, but what sort of man is not one or the other? Perhaps, thought Reyne, they would in another land have been born as simple merchants, warriors to a nobler end, or aught other than them in ropes. But whatever fate was chosen for them, they chose this one.

"Then kill us." The Westerosi responded. From his visage, he appeared to be of the Iron islands. Death did not scare him as it scared the Norvoshi.

"Do you choose death over pleading?" Her father asked as Ghazdan approached from behind. She had not heard him give the order, but it was much like that he had tasked the boy with collecting the arms.

"Yes." He answered simply. It was the ironman's way. From behind her father, his Ghiscari captive crouched, leaning forward and placed the pile of swords and axes by his feet.

"Then you will have it." As he raised his mighty axe, another fool boy like aught before was to be killed, naught more or less. As he brought it down, the boy threw himself forward, seizing a sword with both of his bound hands and caught her father's blade on its nocked edge. Northmen stepped in from all sides as they beheld Torrhen Harclay leap back and swing once more. The unrepentant condemned rose and held the blade before him, the Norvosi adjacent having freed his own hands.

So that is why he held his hands behind. He untied his own knots, thought Reyne.

But whether it was by his skill or no, the situation was far from that of one boy resisting his death. Already as he parried and took nicks from her father, the Norvoshi pulled a knife from the next man's boot, cutting him free and bidding him run south. The gambit distracted her father for a moment as he shouted for a few men to chase him freed.

The man running south was quickly killed, but his liberator had greater success, sprinting onto a thin sheet of ice on the water as her father overpowered the ironborn, driving him to the ground. His life ended swiftly and all men turned to the man on the ice.

"There is naught for it. Face your death." came her father's words. But the man on the ice was a much younger man, and he was not heeded. The Norvoshi broke the ice with his knife, cutting a small raft free and introducing a new gambit. Ghazdan was ordered onto a similar piece of ice, but the freed man sunk to his chest on his own and seized that under the Ghiscari and shoved off, pushing himself farther out. Already a northman, Kerral Dunras to Reyne's memory, took a small landing boat out to the Norvoshi, helping Ghazdan aboard as he passed his chunk of ice. It was odd, thought Reyne, how many of the men had grown a sort of respect for the boy, even if he did the work of three men.

Kerral had a naked sword in the bottom of the boat as he rowed from what Reyne could see, standing on the upper deck of the ship looking down. Ghazdan wasted no time, seizing the weapon and fulfilling all men's fears of him, holding the blade tightly against Dunras's throat, whatever the shouting on the shore. Betrayed trust and rage could be heard, even a voice of reason. But there was naught for it.

Reyne wobbled to the supply rack, forming a plan. If the boat were to venture north, from whence the attack came, it would pass the ship. She grabbed a length of rope, guessing it to be about half again a century of yards, and threw the loop over her shoulder. Looking about, she was alone on the upper deck, but it made no matter. She would heave the rope over for the northman to grab and the other two would row away. They would be out of their element, and out of their leverage and her father would be upon them in a heartbeat.

As they passed beneath the decks of the ship it occurred to Reyne that she had not yet tied off the rope, but the time for that had passed. She heaved the coils over the edge and held one end of the rope fast, placing all of her weight on it, now facing away from the edge.

"For house and hold…"she muttered, unable to breathe from the pressure. All at once she felt the pull on the rope and all at once she felt all the pressure her arms and legs placed on the dock disappear. She felt weightless and disoriented. And then she felt as though she were falling.

Morning came and Reyne awoke in a bloodstain, struggling to put her thoughts together, hearing before she could see.

"Braavos. We make for the city of slaves."

"In this boat, we are as well swimming." The two voices were both heavily accented, though they spoke the Common Tongue. She tried moving, lifting her arms, but they were tied to her chest, she saw as her vision slowly cleared.

"Not today must needs we reach Braavos, not tomorrow. But soon, it is the only fate for men like we."

"If we are bound for Braavos, it will only be to set out for Lorath. Bravos will be the first place in the eastern continent men seek us, Norvos the second. No, Lorath it must be, for we know naught about it." Reyne struggled for her feet, but only one responded. She writhed, screaming even as her captor held her down.

"This one is awake, it seems. Your leg is gone. It was thrice broken and no use for aught but eating should we hunger." Reyne screamed, her mind blank but for fear. But the Norvoshi spoke the truth. Staring down in horror, she could see the pool of blood from a cold, dead, leg and a man besides.

"His name was Kerral Dunras!" she shrieked. "You killed him!" Ghazdan held a hand over her nose and mouth.

"There was naught to feed him- there's naught to feed us! We would all die had I not killed him." he responded, clearly having planned on it. Such lack of honor made Reyne sick.

"Where is your manhood?! Where is your honor?! Where is your gratitude?!" she shouted, biting Ghazdan's hand. But there was naught for it. The Norvoshi simply laughed and offered to reveal his manhood, Reyne angrily rolling about and striking out with her remaining leg. He looked about seven and ten, perhaps more, perhaps less, but a man grown all the same. His hair was quite short, appearing only just growing in after a life of shaving.

He noticed her attention to his peculiar hair, short and light, despite his darker skin and he explained, bizarrely smiling to himself.

"In Norvos, only the Bearded Priests may be about with beards. Men wear their hair and mustaches long, dying with all manners of colors. Women and slaves may have no hair. When I was sold to the Valyrian, he cared little and less about our scalps and chins and allowed no blades near us."

"You should have just been killed." Reyne seethed, as ignorant as unconcerned at the lack of wisdom in her sentiment, as though she were aught but angry. It makes no matter, she thought. Father will be here soon.

"Many times and more, I nearly was. Once men led dancing bears down the Sinner's steps and slaves like I were to clean the filth they left. A she bear broke her chain and charged me, but the gods were good. A man whipped her back leg and cut it off when he caught her." He laughed. "The slaves of Norvos count for little and less, but more than a dancing bear, it seems."

Reyne was but more certain he should have been killed.


	24. Myren 5

MYREN

It was a misted, cold morning that a man in armor stood before them. Myren quickly threw her cloak over Coliete and she could see Darke turn away from the man who led a grey horse. On any other day, it might be the sellsword would have fought the knight, but as they rode on the kingsroad, they were to do so quickly and quietly. Or perhaps, she thought, he was simply too craven.

"I know you. Turn over the girl."

"Stranger, you must have another man in mind. This is my daughter." He indicated Coliete, who could scarcely be seen and shook in fear.

"Why do you hide her? Why do I recognize you?" He angrily bade his beast trot over to Myren, her heart racing. She saw Darke silently draw a sword as the knight turned away from him to retrieve the maid, but the man in boiled leather and mail had been in far too many duels to so easily be attacked from behind, the broken links in his mail and the cuts in the leather attested to that. He brought up his naked shield with fearful speed and plunged a knife between her stallion's eyes as he turned to the sellsword.

"Flee!" he shouted to Myren, but there was naught for it, the knight had seen to that. Darke carried no shield and paid for it against the armored man as her horse fell, swiftly parrying his blows from the knight's sword he had drawn in one fluid motion. Darke dismounted and Myren took the clue. She seized Reyne and half threw her atop Darke's gelding as the sellsword attempted to draw his foe away. The armored man was not fooled, striking the roan's rear with the flat of his blade as he raised his shield to block blows. Reyne held onto the beast's back as it ran, apparently unsure of what to do, and Myren took the momentary chance and sprinted after her, painfully aware the brown travelling dress slowed her. The first day I find use in a sturdy fabric not destroyed on the back of a beast, I must needs run, she thought. If there are gods, the gods are cruel today.

As she caught the maid, who should have continued to race away from the fight, as was her protector's intent, she held the horse, though she knew that if the gelding wished to run, it would simply drag her. Indecision played across her face and Myren reasoned that should the girl run, she would not be able to find her knight easily, but should she stay, the Darke would catch her once more should he triumph. As Myren looked over her shoulder while struggling to convince Coliete to stay, the chances of that appeared grim. Already the knight was visibly wearing him down, savage blows coming down still harder as the sellsword lost strength to parry them all. Shields, Myren thought, all sellswords need shields. A shield was light and effective for blocking without consuming much strength, a man would be dead after parrying too many times, but a shield had to be destroyed before being ineffective.

"Myren, stop! Make them stop fighting!" Coliete shouted as Myren climbed upon the back of the beast.

"I cannot." she responded in a low voice, trying not to distract Darke. "I have a mission and your knight will kill Darke for cutting him and stealing you." The maid struggled in her grasp and turned at last with a threat as Myren kicked the horse and raced for the city.

"When he gets back on his horse and catches us, he'll do the same to you." Myren considered the logic, and far from certain that the roan gelding could outrun the armored man's beast, less so with two passengers, she relented.

"Ser! We give her up!" she shouted as she rounded and the knight threw his sellsword foe to the ground. It appeared that he had succeeded in striking Waters on the skull with either the flat of his blade, his shield, or a mailed fist, whichever it was, the sellsword now clutched his temple and would not release it, saying aught that came to mind.

"Is it over? I got him on the neck, I did." Perhaps his ears were ringing, but Myren could tell he was unable to put a coherent thought to words. What a craven this man is, he cannot even bear injuries.

"Darke, we go on without her. Get up." He would not rise. In the corner of her eye, the knight reclaimed his spoils and set her on his own horse, asking after her health and waiting for her stammered answer. Myren stared at him as he turned to look at the two of them. What more do you ask of us?

"He may die." The knight started. "Are you aught to him?" Myren was incensed, but kept her voice low. It makes no matter what this man thinks, she reminded herself.

"He is naught to me." she responded, curtailing herself before uttering unwise words.

"All the same, I can't leave him like this." The armored man said at length. He left Myren with the gelding and heaved the sellsword onto the back of his own horse, not explaining himself in any way. The hand of Denys Darklyn cared little and less for the man's motives, but now acting without explanation was intolerable, as though she did not exist, or were simply unimportant.

"What do you think you do?" she asked, not forcefully, but with subdued anger.

"He will recover. A man on the island had a similar ail. He forgot things, but he lived."

"This man is a childkiller. He would have killed you." I would have killed you. Myren refused to admit, even to herself, that such a thing was impossible.

"I know little and less of the faith of this land, but the septons say all men sin." he answered, and she raged at the idea that this fool in armor knew more. Cocksure knave.

"They also say that some sins are blacker than others." she responded with confidence, now impugn to the thought he would assail her.

"They may, but if one man's sins were worse than another's, the gods would kill the first and reward the second. No, we mortal men are the same to them." Having spoken, the knight simply led the horse away, Darke, now asleep or near, slumped over its grey back.

With naught else to do, Myren knew she had to get on the road. Darke had been appointed primarily for custodial purposes and as much as it pained her, much and more could happen to her before she reached King's Landing, however close it was. She set a grueling pace and though a light animal, the roan's speed dropped significantly with a passenger, it simply did not have the strength in its body to race at the pace she would have liked.

As the hours passed she found the animal more and more useless, though docile and easily controlled, there was nothing left of it to control. Like a nag spent from a life of work, the only purpose for the gelding was teaching boys and maids to ride. Or, thought Myren, perhaps it would be good eating.

On its mane she found that the previous owner had created little knots every other inch or so of hair, possibly for grabbing and mounting from the front, possibly because it simply was beautiful that way. She marveled at how little the horse's appearance did for her. Darke, of course, had never taken to brushing the beast, and its hair was filthy, and she cared for that little, but bore with it.

As the sun was setting the city came fully into view, and the gold cloaks retrieved her, escorting her into the city, convinced she carried no contraband when she ran a hand through her hair and told them that there was little time left to enter, and that, of course, they would be free to question her in the morning. They would be free to question her about anything at all.

Intention of upholding this assumption entirely absent from her mind, she turned at Cobbler's Square and found Brown Courser's old base of operations, first as a sellsword for aught a man's hire, secondly by appointment of Denys Darklyn. It was a small, confined basement in a shop whose owner asked no questions and was happier that way. Perhaps he's simply craven, thought Myren.

Entering, she saw nothing had changed since the last time she had visited, on orders from her superiors to dig through the wreckage and send back by raven a promissory note from the Iron Bank, worth a fortune if aught. The room was still fit only for pigs, a cot of skins in the corner, armor on a skeleton like to never be explained, and bottles of wine increasing in value as they had the past five years. A collection of weapons lied on a small round table, three swords and a dagger as long as her forearm. It shone with rippling silver in the dim candlelight and she slipped it into the folds of her dress. The sellsword will not miss one weapon among so many, she thought.

Myren heard the sounds of boots going down into the basement.

"How now Nullob Brownmare?" she asked quietly, knowing he cared little for the name to only mention it in a letter as a necessity, at that. She wondered if it were his true name.

"Where's the maid? Where's Darke?" He asked, scowling slightly.

"A knight met us on the road. He was the same man from whom Darke had taken Coliete, and he came to have her again." She wondered what might possess a man to chase them down over a girl with no apparent benefit. She had only been momentarily useful as a means of extracting a modicum of information, but after that she but earned her keep. There were times when Myren thought of her as little more than a burden, but one time in ten…

"Are you hurt? Do you need me to-"Brown Courser began, only to be cut off.

"No, that will not be necessary." However did you become so cocksure? "Where is the body of Escanane Waters?" She asked directly, remembering his scribbled letter that had driven her to leave Duskendale and lose Coliete.

"This won't make sense unless I explain it fully." It already makes no sense at all. "The day I arrived, there had just been an execution. It was a maester, or so he said, but the name he gave wasn't on record. Like as not, he killed a man for the chain with the dagger I found on his remains. I learned that he had a trial, but he only called for witnesses all the way from Antlers, so the gold cloaks threw him to the block."

"Was he the same maester who was in Duskendale?" Myren asked. She knew, but was not so the fool as to claim before being verified. If it were he, then it might be this fool sellsword picked up the maester's trail. She could scarce believe aught so little.

"I had never seen the man before, but it makes no matter. He was the only maester executed, and as I hid among the gold cloaks, they spoke of his prior deeds."

"He was carrying an iron box, was he not?"

"A wooden one, but it matters not. It might be that he simply planked the box, making it look like any man's coffin."

"What happened to it?" Myren asked, knowing that she had lost Darke, but found a Sword far more valuable. Denys Darklyn would arrive in a day, most like, and he would be well esteemed of her actions. He will give me the power I deserve.

"We still know naught. It is unlike that he concealed it in the city, like as not, he was simply taking it to spread another place, only the gods know." Myren was somewhat disappointed, but this man had his limits, as all men do.

"What name was the maester using? Last we heard, it was Bailton of Oxcross."

"Then he must have changed his name. He called himself Straachan, he said aught a man in Antlers would know his name and know that he helped them." The sellsword turned and spat. "I say, he's a fool." No more than you, Brown Courser. No more than you.


	25. Straachan 4

STRAACHAN

The keeper of the Old Stone Bridge in was a welcoming man, eager to accept them after Straachan handed him gold, a far cry from the notes he'd been forced to accept from other 'knights'. He wondered why men assumed he was a knight, his shield was naked and he carried maids from place to place. If aught, he was an errand boy. But he shook the notion from his mind. In this land, any man with arms and armor could be a knight, and a knight was little more in truth. Maids carried happy thoughts otherwise, but they would all learn. He sighed. Might be, he thought to himself, Coliete would never learn.

Putting aside his thoughts, he bid Coliete to the room as he accepted ale from the keeper, having half-listened when the man said there was no wine to be bought. He drank by the fire for a short time, passively taking in the conversation of the men at a table, wondering what could be so interesting at this hour other than drink for a deep sleep.

"Men say that Roose Bolton means to be King in the North."

"Fuck what men say. The Dreadfort would not have killed the Young Wolf had he intent in his mind to replace him. What of the eastern continent? Varys pays well for aught on his 'favorite little dragon'."

"Some saw her die, some saw her ride the dragon and kill the Yunkish. Let matters of her pass. Most like, the dragon will devour her. The other two dragons raise all seven hells in Mereen. A fool loosed them." Straachan inclined his ear. Since he had arrived on this continent, one in ten men had heard of dragons hatching in the east, but these men spoke as though they had been there. Looking more closely at the first to speak, it was not so unreasonable.

The man had a nigh on shaved head with a thin white scar, bright against his darker skin. He spoke with an alien voice, never referring to himself or aught a man by name.

"The Bearded Priests told me as a boy that all the dragons were gone. If men have truly seen them once more- there are those who would kill to know."

"Varys knows. It was he who saved the Targaryens." the Westerosi responded, killing whatever notion the other was beginning to form.

"Does he know of the whispers from Valyria?" asked the Essosi.

"Naught comes out, not after the Doom."

"Oh, but men have. On my way back from Myr, a man from Volantis sent me a raven about all manners of men leaving the black clouds and mists on a great ship."

"Where were they bound?"

"There is no way to be clear. But if we know aught, we know they stopped in Volantis." The man listening to the foreigner's tale nodded in calm acknowledgement.

"Varys will want to know. If the gods are good, he will not already." The two of them exchanged doubtful looks. They retired.

Straachan took a drink, now alone in the Old Stone Bridge but for the keeper cleaning and putting things away. A man may wonder whether the gods were good or cruel, but all he can know is that they allow the greatest of goods and evils to exist. He sighed, as many times before not sure what to make of it all. It was not an affair that made no matter, but one that well and truly had naught that was given, naught that was known but of what the gods did not do.

Straachan slept, deeply dreaming for the first time in days. As though his mind recalled a strange series of images he remembered of Astaron imprisoned, as he had once dreamed briefly on his great trek. But this time, the seemed more real than what he could remember of the dream with the maester behind iron bars, the mad notion that a man would believe Astaron guilty of aught.

This time, Astaron was free, or in the open air, at any rate. Two gold cloaks walked close behind him, silent of pace, eyes flitting left and right, looking for something Straachan could not see. Astaron walked with a somber quietude, though his eyes as well looked to be nigh on spinning out of their sockets. It occurred to him that maester and custody looked for the same thing- a means of escape.

The cloaks led their prisoner up to a platform where above a man Straachan had never seen read the charges against the scholar, who declined the chance for final remark. The man continued, explaining why the Wall could not expect him, that he had been sentenced to die with all haste. It ws then that Astaron visibly noticed a gap between the gold cloaks that encircled him and lunged for it, only to be shot immediately by an archer. The men then dragged him to the block and raised a greatsword, plunging it down in turn. A guard grabbed the head and carried it away in a basket as the others dragged what was left to a heap of bodies for burning. The blood, Straachan saw, was neither cleaned from the block nor aught around it.

He woke with a start, the sun beginning to rise out the window. Someone had kindly finished his ale for him, and he thanked his unknown benefactor by curtly asking the keeper who had been in the room.

"I saw no man here, I swear it by the Seven, Ser." He answered quickly, looking away and returning to his work as such. Deciding he had simply intimidated the man, still wearing armor as he was, though his sword was not at the ready in his scabbard, he went out to the horses to see if another were tied or hoof prints could be seen. There were none, but his sword was not on the grey beast either, who had been unsaddled. Straachan ran inside, hardly thinking, sharply turning at the landing as he took the stairs, and knocked loudly on Coliete's door before throwing it open, the door unlocked.

"Coliete! Where are you?!" He shouted. At a quick search of the room, he found a note from her captor, probably a brigand. It explained in poor writing that they were armed and should aught a man come looking for her, he must needs bring a hundred gold dragons to the stables at Stokeworth.

Within his heart, Straachan raged at the truth he had long since learned. That no man was save, he knew and accepted. That no maid, his blood boiled. He charged back downstairs, prepared to beat the information from the keeper, if fear kept his mouth closed then fear will open it again.

"Please! By the Mother, have mercy!" he shouted as the armored man approached him with a forceful, deliberate pace.

"There is no mercy in this world." Not even for maids who know naught of the horrors.

"I have your sword!" He rounded hastily and opened a chest behind him. He thrust the swordbelt out before him, explaining himself rapidly. "Had the men seen it, they would have killed you!" Straachan guessed the keeper must have seen them in the distance and tried to wake him, but saw that his weapon hung loosely at his side. He sighed, calming himself.

"I am sorry." He said simply, taking the swordbelt and putting it once more about his waist. The brigands wanted him alive and ahorse, or they would have stolen the grey beast. But had they seen him armed, attempting to silently kidnap Coliete would carry too great a risk and they would have killed him, like as not with alternate plans for the maid.

He climbed atop his horse outside, scanning the snow for footprints. On the other side of the Old Stone Bridge, two sets of horse tracks led away, a clever way of disguising their path for there had been naught out front. Like as not, they were using some snow boots to come around the inn, he thought.

Following the trails, he found the tricks had not yet stopped. First the path split, one into a curve, the other going straight. He took the curved path, reasoning that the straight path, which directed him across a frozen lake, was unwise, given that ice would be thicker at midnight than the midmorning.

As he avoided more obvious tricks, he began to wonder why the kidnappers had left him the horse. Even if they wanted him to accomplish the task quickly, they would still check the stables for hidden gold. Looking down at his mount's legs, a thin stream of blood ran down the back of one, suggesting a whip had been used to no effect. A loyal beast, he decided to come up with a name, but could not think of one. Might be I'll let Coliete name it when I find her, he concluded.

Anger built once more as he realized how little had gone to plan. He had paid for the sellsword's bed and should he wake soon, breakfast, but as soon as the man had meat in him, he would be off, perhaps to rejoin the woman from before. He had thought little and less of the man's fate before now, but it would have made no matter had he simply determined it himself. But, thinking on it, Straachan had expected too much of him. He was a sellsword, and he would do what sellswords always do.

He rode on until he came to a fork in the path in a small wood, where no hoof prints could be seen. He decided that either the captors concealed their tracks with snow, or the snow had fallen from tree branches above them as they rode. Looking at the tree branches, a few twigs had broken from a paucity of the lower ones, but only on the course veering east. He took it, decreasing his pace somewhat. If I am to recover her without a hostage situation, they must not know of my approach, he thought to himself with clarity unexpected.

Straachan's mind suddenly raced with images of Coliete, bound, being made to trek through the snow, anger building. Though he told himself that the kidnappers would want her alive and his anger did naught to improve her situation, it made no matter, his rage rose all the same. Might be she's off to be a bed slave in Yunkai, he thought as he struggled to not spur his mount. Might be they pass her off as a Stark and sell her to the crown. Might be-

All at once they were around him. There were six warriors in total, armored and armed to the teeth, mounted, scarlet shields borne.

"The Old Queen sends her regards, traitor." Staachan reigned in and turned his beast to face the man behind him, he who held a bound and gagged Coliete with a dagger to her throat.

"Is a maid of nine or ten a traitor to the realm?" He asked angrily, thankful his helmet concealed his expression. She struggled against her restraints, unable to form words, though he knew what she meant. He raised a hand to calm her.

"I fear naught from you." Straachan said, addressing all of them. "For years have I fought men, armored and seasoned in war. But you have stolen a girl because you are afraid."

"You have leave to fear, knight from the songs. No man will hear you scream."

"This I knew. There are no other men here."

He silently scanned them, having long since learned this was no kidnapping, but it made no matter. The one to his back would strike first, ever are killers bold when the enemy shows his back. He would block with his shield, parrying a spear thrust from the next man like to strike. The rest would wait until battle commenced.

Straachan stared for the final time into Coliete's pleading eyes. There had never been a chance for her to survive and he silently prayed her death would be swift as he felt his anger on the verge of eruption, like the fire from the throat of a dragon.

"Another soul to the Stranger goes." The killer said forcefully, slicing the maid's throat and allowing her blood to drip silently onto the fresh snow.


	26. The Kraken's bastard

THE KRAKEN'S BASTARD

It seemed the tenth time when the prophet dumped sea water over him once more. Irreverantly, thoughts of the world around him swam in his mind like mermaids as he received the blessing of the Drowned God.

"Let Geragon Pyke, your servant, be born again from the sea, as you were. Bless him with salt, bless him with stone, bless him with steel."

"What is dead may never die." responded the drowned, interrupted from his thoughts.

"What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger."

When the drowning was over, the kraken bastard's mind turned once more to mortal matters.

The small party he sent after the dark boy and the nailed man had not yet returned, and to this there was any one of several possible causes, as said his salt wife, Osonka. She was born in a fishing village on Ibben, the home of her mother, but men agreed her father must have been a Summer Islander what with her dark skin. He had taken her from the frozen island during a raid following rumors on the location of the masque. She had not loved him, but that was not asked of her.

"Send men after them. They may have simply been tricked." she advised. He thought on it after dismissing her. Quellon, his distant and long dead father would never have taken advice from a woman, but he was not his father and Osonka's counsel had served him well for the past ten years.

"Royik. Skull-break." he started, addressing two men on the frozen shore behind him. "Gather men, three to each of you. Pursue them I sent." They understood their order, and set about honoring it. If there were aught to be said on those two, he thought, they knew strength when they saw it and listened to the strong. Skull-break, the younger of the two brothers, won his name when a man broke the side of his skull with a hammer and he responded by shattering his foe's by flanking it with both fists. The two of them were fierce fighters, and would not easily die should the first party have met a blooded end.

It was the end of a day well fought. The scouting party headed south had reported a mass execution by a single northman. It was seen that one man among those fated to die escaped, taking a few with him on a small boat, concealed by the mist. It was an interesting report, but Geragon had little and less concern for one escaped prisoner. What mattered was the battle soon to ensue.

Not three hours ago, his men captured and killed seventeen warriors from the Seven Kingdoms, northron all. There would be retribution, and the bastard born of kraken and salt wife would see it matched with steel. He would be ready.

But the hour grew late, and men said it unwise to do battle without having slept. He retired to his tent and bade Osonka read, himself unlettered. The tome he had looted a moon's turn past contained many and more stories from the time of the First Men.

"There was a time before the dragonkings, a time before Valyria, and a time before Ghis, how the days of our lives are little more than heartbeats! The time was called by men after as The Long Night, when the White Walkers strode the realms of men. There may never be a day the singers forget the heroes that fell before by strike of crystalline blades, the brave souls who set out to die.

Of them the greatest of heart and will was the Old Kraken, whom maesters trace back to the Grey King himself. With his masque, sable, he drove fear into the hearts of the Others he fought, pushing ever farther into the Land of Always Winter until at last he fell to fate, centuries of Walkers upon him and his crew. Oh, how they fought! May maester and singer never pass over them as they push ceaselessly into the past.

Should a man remember the First Men and the Children of the Forest fought as one against their shared foe, magic and steel flew against the war machine, but the horrors would continue, to the final hour of the Long Night, to the last hero of the realms of men…"

The passage grew faint in lettering, as Osonka explained while replacing the book where she found it. Geragon wondered from time to time whether her eyes grew faint, for ever would he call out sights on the horizon, islands, creatures of the deep, even the beaches of Essos and she would do little more than respond to his wonder at the world beyond the sea and turn away. He frowned, thinking about it. Looking at her, her age was uncertain. A man might see her beauty and say five and twenty, but a man might also see the wiles and wisdom and the way she walked, and say five and fifty. Himself, he knew to be beyond either estimate but it made no matter for a man.

He decided it was simply hard to say with a Summer Islander in part, keeping himself from wondering if all of them were simply that way. His travels had taught him much and more about the types of men, and all of them killed and died the same, so it made no matter.

Greater things troubled him. The ink black boy and the other almost certainly knew of the masque, else what would they seek? If men knew there to be aught in this frozen wasteland apart from death and snow, how had they learned. At once it came to him and he summoned the scouts from the party he sent south.

"What did the condemned look like?" He asked of them as they hasted to his command. "Were they darker than the northmen?"

"Yes, Ser, they were." He was no knight, and he found the idea of frolicking about with fine ladies appalling, but appreciated the respect all the same.

"Were aught of the men black-skinned?"

"Perhaps a few, Ser. Why?" The man said after thought.

"I have nothing further. Return to your posts." It was true, then. Other men had heard of wonders in this land, whatever they were. But what of the northmen? Had they simply been pursuing the Essosi? He sighed and decided he would puzzle out no more of it until morning, took a deep drink of the green vintage of Selhorys. Darkness overtook him.

The sun rose and with it a myriad of worries and cares, each more confusing than the last. First a hunter reported seeing a northron man in the wood, like as not after deer, much the same as he.

"If he saw you, much the same as you him, then matters are more complicated than I would like. Am I clear?" He asked with no intention of waiting for response. He was ever clear.

Second, a visible lump had appeared on Osonka's belly. Had she been impregnated? If so, by whom? Ever she carried a worried look as she took to wearing a large cloak of furs. Geragon knew he was far from responsible, he spilled his seed on her teats. But the third and most urgent matter arose, calling his mind away from the other two.

White Walkers.

The finest swordsman could land naught on one, not even a nick. A legend from Elyria once boasted of a hero who walked the entire world, and had bested all foes that dared oppose him. The bastard kraken had little and less doubt he would not fare half so well against an Other as he had a lion. But even if there were a swordsman with a blade quick enough to match the terrors of the night, the blade would freeze and shatter the first time a Walker parried.

"What have we learned of them?" He demanded of the scout.

"Many and more of our hunters will die unless we withdraw."

"We shall not. Our men seek out the masque, and we may not leave them." His heart bled little for the weak dying in the frosty grip of winter, but an attack of White Walkers was another matter entirely. Few men lived. "Have the woodcutters stack what they have around the encampment. All men with eyes will know we are here, but the Others cannot walk through fire should we ignite the walls."

With the scout out of the way, he turned his attention to the ship. It was essential that their craft, which could so deftly avoid each floating chunk of ice and sail with little wind, still function as soon as the need to pull back arose.

The craft seemed in working order, and certainly would have fewer men aboard by the hour she once more had to sail. What troubled him was the salt wives. There were but three on the vessel, the other two, one belonging to the brothers and the other to a quartermaster, little liked by the crew. It might be she had been fucking, but the man would know. Had he known, she would have died.

Already the men had set about his commands. The brothers were long gathered and gone, the wooden wall being constructed. The Dothraki do not build, lions do not cheat you, and the krakens do not sow. It would be a terror for all should we wake up one morning with all rotated, he thought.

He gathered those who were not at work and shouted into the mob.

"Is there aught man among you who can fight?!" A great roar of affirmation raised from them. It does me well, Geragon thought, that they go to their fates gladly. Men wonder why the ironmen wear armor aboard. "Then the rest of you can stop shouting and tell him to get along!" The kraken charged to the south along the shore, the entire host of pirates to his back, shouting with swords and axes at the ready. The men to the south were northron, but the greenlands were never prepared for raids.

When they arrived, his men had been rushing proudly for hours, and Geragon at last approved, ever did he hate it when men let him down, but it esteemed him well when they followed orders. And now he had a new one, as peremptory as the one before.

"Show them no fear! Show them no mercy! We do not show!" The shout that followed him was deafening. The northmen were ready quickly, but their forces were divided. It was clear in their ranks that there were missing men now and again. They would die, and they would die quickly.

His sight revealed the skilled warriors as they fell before his men with surprising clarity and in beats of his heart, drumming against his ears, he found himself locked in combat with a one-armed man carrying a hammer, swinging and smashing wildly against Geragon's sword and dagger, forcing him to madly parry with both weapons until an opening presented itself. The next man was older than he, but as a captain of advanced age, he had long since learned the hard way that age is no measure of skill, even a green boy could best a captain should he train like a man.

After wounding and deflecting the old swordsman, the battle was nigh on won ahead of him. Many and more of his men lay dead, but the northmen lost still greater numbers but did not surrender. He cursed under his breath. He would never surrender himself, but minded it not when another man did. All the same, when his foes chose death over dishonor, he would grant their wishes.

Neither side held aught back, and the battle was over quickly. He ordered a company to search the trees for fugitives and himself rested his bones on a mound of the dead. A favored companion of his approached him in his squatting.

"Does the mind of a captain stop wandering about?"

"No. Why did you think you still live?"


	27. Reyne 4

REYNE

Days had passed since the Norvoshi adopted the name Fa'shar, one which sounded Lorathi to his liking. Ghazdan's case was not so easily won. Excepting that he shave his head, which would mark him half a slave, even outside of Norvos, all men with eyes would know him for Ghiscari with his wiry hair. As such, he simply decided to tell aught a man who asked that he was from Ghozai.

"What about you, Reyne?" He asked her, oblivious of her anger at even the idea of masquerading to hide her identity from her own father.

"I shall most certainly not be participating in this charade, cravens." She responded, calming her anger to be better heard. "But quite the opposite. I shall undermine your endeavors at every turn." It felt good to use the language of her high station, surely her father would be proud that even now she held aloft her head and did not succumb.

"Very well, this Fa'shar shall receive the girl to the water." The Norvoshi said, practicing the Lorathi tongue. He scooped her up as she flailed about, short a viable limb to make matters worse. She had given little thought to swimming, the water was deadly cold, and even where the ice nearly stopped the small boat, she could not run across it. From time to time, she wondered if she would ever swim again.

"You and I shall have many and more disagreements if you kill her." Ghazdan said simply. It was not as though he had formed any special attachment to her, it was clear to Reyne from the neutral look in his eyes, but it was much like she had struck a nerve when calling him a craven.

"This one would scarce drown a maid." Fa'shar said as he replaced heron the floor of the boat. "But he must inquire- what is it that we are to do with her? She knows where this boat will go. Does the Ghozai misbelieve that she will reveal him to her father?" If I hear aught more of this Lorathi talk, my head is like to burst, Reyne decided.

"You would have drowned her for true, don't try to deny it. I've seen the way you eat the leg- you enjoy it!" Ghazdan shouted, as though he would pay her father back in part by preserving her.

"But the question stands. What would the Ghozai that this one do?" All was silent.

"We send her back as a prisoner." he started, the idea elaborating as he went, "She would be bound and gagged, and when she arrives in the north, let her say a thousand secrets of ours for all the gods of Ghis. Naught will remain true, by then we shall have a new home and new names."

"But how would this prisoner go?" Fa'shar asked, disregarding Reyne entirely.

"As all must. When a man commits a crime in one realm, he must face the justice of that land." he explained, the Norvoshi unfamiliar with the idea. "Reyne's father said that the law in the North is that he who sentences you must execute you."

"Ah, so the Ghozai and Lorathi would say of this maid that she has killed Torrhen Harclay's daughter!" the Norvoshi man finished, laughing. "How fitting!"

As he rowed farther and farther south, the man seemed still more Lorathi, even in manner. Jauntily he rolled his shoulders while rowing, almost as though in a dance, and gleefully he shoved the chunks of ice out of the way with his feet. His imitation compounded to the point of not making sense, but the Norvoshi showed no signs of tiring with it, however much Reyne protested his fervor.

"What do you hope to gain by playing the mummer all the way out here?" Her irritation grew. "We shall not see Storrold's Point for days!" He smiled at her playfully, clearly feeding off her annoyance. "And even then, all your acting will make no matter! What wildling has heard aught of Lorath?" she asked, not expecting or wanting an answer.

"Ah, but this one must not simply play the Lorathi as would a mummer, but become one to the heart!" He explained excitedly. "Else, the true men of the Free Cities would mark him a man of falsehood at once." It was impossible to argue with one so convinced, but the hours wore on all the same and Reyne found his humming even worse than his manner.

"Stop humming. You are being mean." Reyne muttered, only half willing to speak, knowing yet another explanation would come.

"Once this one met a fellow Lorathi. He hummed not, but with an iron coin he would do a trick from time to time, and as such, this one must learn a trick. After all, the Ghozai does naught but row." Her mind followed her eyes as they turned to Ghazdan. She hated him when first they met, and her attempt to forgive him had only brought her more pain when once more he stole her from her father.

And yet, there he was, dutifully rowing away. Can I hate a man who would preserve me?

A thousand times, or near as much as makes no matter, she had hatched plans to escape and return to her father, but there was naught she could do, even to preserve herself without a leg. Ships would leave from Storrold's Point bound for the port of Ibben on the odd moon's turn, and it was like that she would be on one as soon as off this boat. The Fa'shar had little and less taste for porting her, but acknowledged that he and Ghazdan may need to exchange her for passage, even only as far as Ibben. Her blood chilled at the thought, the very idea of a man lifting her and throwing her over his shoulder like a kid. As to her fate beyond, her guesses were enough to terrify her.

It was decided. She would escape.

The following morning, she woke as the other two slept on in the bottom of the boat. There would be men at the Point, men who could preserve her… but father told me not to trust men, she thought. What reason would they have to help her? House Harclay was known and well enough respected in the North, but that realm was far from here.

If aught, escaping would only realize her fears sooner. Father did not raise me to go quietly, though. Were he here, he would remind me of my mother's courage or whatever it was. She turned her head away, dryly smiling at the idea of Torrhen Harclay standing among them on the already full boat. Were he here, these two would die. But then an idea came to her

Perhaps by slowing us down, father really will be here. It is much like that he has already sent men to find us. Though he did not know which way we would go… thinking about it will do me no good. Reyne let slip a silent prayer to her hold's silent gods and heaved herself over the edge of the boat, landing on a flat chunk of the broken ice shelf.

"Reyne! Get back here!" Ghazdan yelled in a boyish voice full of surprise as he stood, rocking the boat still further. She bounded with her three remaining limbs from one floating piece to another, until at last she found herself on the thicker sheet touching the shore. The plan worked.

Ghazdan, however appeared unconvinced. He made to leap from the boat himself, but looking over her shoulder, Reyne saw the man hold him back.

"This one asks you let her go, young one of Ghozai. You would not allow me to kill her, but now the northron girl has killed herself." He forced Ghazdan back down into the boat and continued his rowing as he disappeared from Reyne's hindsight.

Looking forward now, she saw the white branches and red leaves of a weirwood tree, but the trunk had no face. Was this no godswood? She supposed that the white trees had to grow somewhere, but had never previously given the matter any thought, never wondering how the weirwoods came to be planted in the godswoods of the North.

In the branches there seemed to be something lodged. Reyne could not reach. She hobbled over with a stick and even tried jumping, only to fall and bleed a little when she struck a stone. She sniffed and turned away, leaning on her cane.

"Reyne" a voice whispered. She had suffered much and traveled far, but had thought herself miles to go before at last losing her mind.

"Who goes?" she asked, giving in to her fears and wonder. The maid found herself staring at the tree, looking up into its branches once more. A corner of a length of black fur could be seen. Retrieving another stick from the ground, she pulled the fur from the branches and discovered the gift of the old gods. It was the skin and fur of a black bear, and Reyne hastened to wrap it about herself.

But where now was she bound?

She could not go farther into the wood, already she dared shadowcats to kill her. Mayhaps with a better staff, I could pole through the waters on ice. She found a longer staff in the woods, longer and supple, without being weak, and set about for the water but stopped short there. The current was a southerly one, and she would do little more than slowly go south.

Taking her chances with the shadowcats, Reyne set off to the north, hoping some patrol of her fathers would see her. In the fog over the water, it was not much like she would see them. Far before her, a woman stood. She looked a wildling, what with her furs and spears, one in her hand and two on her back. It was clear she noticed Reyne, and even though the maid turned away, hobbling back to the south along the shore, the woman called out.

"Is it a little babe?" she shouted. Does she pity me?

"Naught save a crone!" Reyne cried out in a broken voice, as close as she could manage. The ruse failed visibly and the spearwife increased her pace. She heaved her small body onto a chunk of ice and felt it dip deeply into the water from the impact. As she moved to jump again, the ice dipped again as she heard a spear thud into it, pinning her cloak to the ice. She struggled with the weapon with both hands as the ice slowly drifted south and the wildling woman raced after her, gaining quickly.

"A girl! I'm going to enjoy this!" Reyne forced the spear from the ice and it cracked beneath her, leaving her to jump to the next one as the woman caught her, lifting her from the ice and throwing her onto the shore, strength sapped. The free one stood over her and looked down.

"Please…" Reyne whispered. "I am no warrior… I am but a maid." The wildling, angered crouched, grabbing her around the middle.

"Oh, is that it? Are women to be treated as dolls? We'll see who's a maiden." She groped about on Reyne's body while reaching for the spear in her outstretched arm. With the last of her strength, Reyne forced the spear she had dislodged into the woman's side, causing her to bleed violently, screaming for the pain unexpected. The wildling quickly retreated and let Reyne there, cloak and furs and smallclothes open and exposing her to the biting wind. She could not move.

As night fell, she saw a black moon in the sky, scarcely visible against the blackness, but as the stars came out, the dark circle was clearer, the interruption of the beauty in all directions. A painful sensation came from below her abdomen, making her wonder what the wildling had done to her. She forced herself to her feet, shifting her garments once more to hide her body from a frozen death.

To the south, she bound herself. She would go far afield of Storrold's Point, the Wall, and Winterfell. Her father may find her at home, for no fury from whatever hell beyond this world could force her north again. Dragging the spear along behind her, she would see all furies dead.


	28. Myren 6

MYREN

It was clear to her that Nullob Brownmare was not Brown Courser's favorite name, true name or no. During the day he took jobs from Flea Bottom to the Great Sept, more or less keeping bread about. Myren wore a finer dress than she had in days, a green the color of spring with a gold trim and design. To her disdain not considered by Darklyn, she looked almost a lady.

It makes no matter, she thought. I look the part.

As she made her way to the Red Keep, she kept with the pace of highborn ladies, listening to their conversation intently, reminding herself that Brown Courser was far too cocksure to accept such a task, to wear what she wore, or act as she did. The thought pleased her.

"Well, the men of my family know little and less of the matters of true importance." one lady began. She looked to be of House Harte, or mayhaps Farring. It made no matter, the titles and heraldry would be irrelevant as soon as she had her way. "Honestly! Prancing about with their silly war and all the talk thereof, one would think they know aught about the price of bread with the coming winter."

"Tell me, how fares the Vale on this matter? Men have said they remain loyal to the crown." Myren gave no thought to the Vale, her mind turned to questions with which to deluge Denys Darklyn when next she saw him, she had heard of his secret glass gardens in the North, but how secure would they be when all men starved? Even a child could raid a glass garden.

At this juncture, she took a vagary out of sight of the Guildhall of the Alchemists, crossing to a smaller road leading to the Lion's Gate. Taking it until feeling the upward incline of the hill, she crossed again to the Street of Steel, afield of the store of Tobho Mott, with his easily recognizable statues out in front.

"Cocksure…" she muttered to herself definitively. Continuing west and north on the Street of Steel, she approached the Great Sept of Baelor from the back, sitting by the well as instructed, facing east, the heights of the Red Keep in sight.

"The Sword of King's Landing greets you, Myren, hand of Denys Darklyn. Would that there were never kings, and that this port be named aught else, but our ends will come in time." She did not turn to see her benefactor, but figured well that she would be some sort of defrocked septa, and it was like as not, to Myren's reckoning, that she was displeased with the force kings used to contain the realms.

"It strikes me as odd that you would request of Darklyn that I not look upon you." Myren began, in a falsely sociable way she found profitable with such women.

"A sellsword, or even a woman who knows one, may not have my likeness."

"It makes no matter. What news have you regarding the crowns?" Myren knew that Denys would have the septa entirely in the dark about the box and man inside.

"The passing of her uncle has ostensibly created a period of mourning for the Old Queen, but in reality she has lost much and more, and ever greater will her shame be to grief." That much I know, hag.

"What of King Tommen? How fares he?" The voice from Myren's lips was not her own, but she would have the septa believing her a high lady before a violent usurper. She would have to remind herself to ask Denys what secret art he used to convince the holy hag his intents were peaceful.

"His Grace is much like his father, whoever he was." Violent and cocksure or of horrid taste in women? "Though he spends a moiety of his days not training with arms like boys his age." Perhaps he is wiser, then. It might be he even begins to take from his mother rather than father.

"You hear things from him?"

"No, if he confesses, he does so only with the High Septon, and such things are forbidden from reaching my ears." Then what useful drivel do you have for me? "But reach them all the same they do." the septa said, sighing softly.

"What are his sins?"

"He knew of the Rose Queen's treachery, but failed to report it to the Faith." she answered, directly as a change. Myren quickly feigned sympathy, though her face could not be seen.

"Mother have mercy." she responded. At length the crone opposite her stood.

"Were I younger and less wise, it might be I would have heard a response appropriate for a fellow septa." Would that I knew whether there were gods for true or no. "But something tells me you are not the right woman."

"I would like to tell you otherwise." I would like to tell you I have lain with more men than you can count, but that is also untrue. "But I would not so readily give up the life I have." The septa sighed, perhaps unsure of what she had expected. They parted ways without a glance.

In the hours that followed, Myren took in much and more of the city, searching the crowds for gossip of the maester and his stolen box. By the time the sellsword caught up with her, she had learned that his arrest, torture, and execution had taken place around midnight, out of the sight of most men.

Of course, were they not so cocksure they would notice more, she thought.

On a more useful note, a septon appearing no greater than a manservant told her that he had been there on the night the maester was arrested, and indicated a space on the stone floor before the Seven. When she asked what had happened, the man told he the scholar went quietly and was taken through the city at a time few men would see.

At last she met up with Brown Courser, and he bore good news. A job had taken him to the docks, where he heard whispers of a mysterious box.

To Myren's understanding of them, refined after years of experience, there were three uses for a sellsword, the first and most common being hired for an army, the second being assassination, assuming the client wants it done in broad daylight with all men in Westeros knowing, the third being guard detail. While Darke appeared to prefer killing to his already assigned task of guarding her and Coliete, Brown courser took custodial work more seriously.

"The Old Queen told me I needed to prove myself." he began. "She sent me to the docks, said there was a man there named Blount asking after dromonds, whatever that means."

"You were to fight him." Out with it.

"He hardly wished it, but that's afield of the point." All that you've said is afield of the point. "The point is, one of the deck boys there was joking about a man paying too many dragons to carry one box, not even himself with it."

"Where bound?"

"Sothoros, where the Red Death belongs, he believes. Naath is a small island where the people are peaceful to all. Like as not, he figures the Naathi would bury the corpse and not get sick."

"And the Red Death would never kill again. How long did it take for Escanane to contract it?" She kept her voice calm, but already she saw where the matter would take her.

"Years, but why?" Myren breathed a sigh of relief before answering.

"It is much like that he needed to go as deep into the jungle as possible to find aught of this plague. Should one of us go to retrieve the body, we would not die of it just by touching Naath."

"It is well, but why would the Naathi tell us where the body was? No manner of threat will work on these men. The sailors would know."

"They would not have tried to hide it, unless, by some miracle, the maester knew their tongue and left them a note." She said so almost in jest, but it took a moment for Brown Courser to catch up, at which point he feigned that he understood. Cocksure.

He turned to resume his work, whatever that was, and Myren for a moment considered asking whether he had won the fight, guessing the reason he concealed that detail. But it made no matter, win or lose, the sellsword was bound to be as sure as ever.

When at last night had fallen, Myren allowed herself to return to the base, finding Brown Courser halfway through a Myrish whore, but not so deep in rutting not to see her enter. He sent the girl away with her silver and clothes, throwing something over himself on the floor.

"Do you always lie with maids on the floor?" Myren asked, a haughty tone entering her voice unchecked. The knave smiled.

"Never maids, and I prefer the battlefield." He said simply, most like having rehearsed the line. Looking him over, it was the first she had seen him without of his armor.

"It makes no matter." she responded, hastily altering the matter of talk as her voice altered to one of disgust. It was all bought and paid, she reminded herself. He inflates himself unduly, she thought with her lips threatening to upturn in a smile.

"Then what does?"

"After your lost battle, I set about after Lady Harte. Her late father commissioned the construction of no fewer than thirteen ships of fabled speed. The current is northerly and it has been the past moon's turn, but the waves will soon turn east." Brown Courser stared back at her.

"You never found her." He said, convinced. How can you be so convinced? Oh, wait, you are cocksure.

"Did you?" she asked, challenging him.

"I killed her." He stood up, turned about, and tossed a bag of dragons onto the table. "It should be more than enough for swift passage there and back." He spoke without effect.

"Then it was all for naught. You killed a woman and went out celebrating? Honestly, Nullob, you could have saved the coin and fucked Lady Harte to death." The sellsword quickly exploded into intense anger, rising and striking the table.

"You act like you're so much better, and you love it, don't you? Lose the maid? Fuck Darklyn, he won't care if our plans escaped with her! It's my lot to wield a sword, and there was a man paying good gold for it, and you act like there was a better plan? What in the seven hells would you have done with the Harte woman? Asked her nicely?" He paused briefly, hand visibly on his swordbelt.

"Had you told me you would kill her, I would have placed an order for a ship first." she began firmly. "We could have used this gold to pay for it with enough left to fill up your arse, but now suspicion abounds. No man kills a lady for nothing, a bag of dragons before her heirs would arouse suspicion."

"Had you told me she had ships, I would never have killed her." She scoffed, hearing but scarcely listening. His words meant naught to her.

"Give me the gold. On the morrow, if the gods are good-" If there are gods "-I may, have a chance at possibly making up for your errors." They would never suspect me of killing Lady Harte, and would be all too happy to sell off some old ships for funeral gold.

Brown Courser was expressively livid, but let the matter drop, letting go of thoughts of killing her like a craven. More the fool him, she thought, I may yet do him a favor in his sleep. But the night wore on and the sellsword was asleep after an ale or seven and she had little interest in taking out her dagger as he lie on the floor, unaware.

"After all things," -she muttered to herself-" if I can be but nine of ten parts sure of my success, what fool would I be to attempt it?" Even asleep, she could not be certain he would not kill her. She would simply adhere to the plan and hope Denys would have him to sail for Naath.

Vindication at last would be well earned.


	29. The Woodcutter's Man

THE WOODCUTTER'S MAN

It had been years since he had taken such a load on his back gladly. Even in the autumn of his life, such work was a wonder for his body, his joints would feel loose and supple and the work would make ale taste all the better. But that was a different season and another king.

In the snow he dragged the misshapen logs behind him every third step, keeping the sticks on his back level lest they raise all hell for him later. His thoughts turned to his little shack near the woodcutter's cottage, by the gods it was drafty but it kept the snow off a man's back. In his youth he once told his mother he would be a septon, but she knew, she must have known what his fate would truly hold. She did not smile.

But the gods had been good to him, his heart and mind and back were strong, even late into the winter of his years, far longer than a man could expect. In the path before him he caught sight of a tree with blood on the bark and recalled days when he would have been happy deer were about. But though now they did little more than get into what plants still grew for him, he still took pity on whatever animal would scratch itself against a tree until blood ran down the trunk.

As he neared, the blood became clearer. It was a handprint, a clear one at that. Had a man staggered away from some silent battle, some melee the singers would never tell? He often thought nine in ten parts of history were unknown. But he shook his head and thought better of it, deciding a man must have killed a wounded deer with a knife and bloodied the tree as he carried the body away.

What he saw in a small clearing was no deer. Six armed and armored men lie on the snow, more collecting atop their steel carapaces with the passing hour, the ground about them running red.

"Kill me…" a man choked. The elder set his load against a tree and knealt down beside the wounded man.

"Are you the last alive?" He asked, unsure of what to do.

"We killed him… got his arse seven times, he was bleeding, I tell you…" The man choked again and struggled to raise his arm. "If he's not dead, he's mad, but he's dead, I know it."

"I don't think I can move you. I'm sorry."

"Are you off- Duskendale… logs?"

"I'm going to Duskendale, yes. The woodcutter says the merchant expects me."

"Find Leek… If I live, I'll tell him… who sent me. Varys would make him … a rich man… a very powerful… to hear about it." At once the old man set off with his load again, and for an hour or so, felt lighter, swifter… but his age once more was reminded to him by the ache of his knees. All the same, his pace was well measured.

Hours passed and Duskendale came into view. His earliest memories were of the days his greatfather would see him, taking him on a knee and recalling to him the Sack of Duskendale, Criston Cole, and the still greater troubles that would follow. But all his life as a youth he had never seen the city, not once.

He approached the Dun Fort, passing a man on a donkey and the knights at the gate. They had little and less interest in an elderly soul dragging a woodcutter's goods into town, and their lack of attention paid him showed the old man just that. Leaving his wood behind the Seven Swords, where he could retrieve it later, he nearly passed Leek in the street, surrounded as he was by a small procession of knights. He kept pace with them, tired and feeling useless, until at last the man stopped in the center of town with an address.

"My men have brought me word of a matter of great interest." It was of no great interest to the townfolk, milling about as before. "There is talk of insurrection against our Lord of great justice, Randyll Tarly. Be it known to all men that Rufus Leek will not condone a second Defiance of Duskendale."He paused for effect, and a drunk could be heard laughing. "No fewer than two nights ago, our men at arms discovered what remained of a battle between what a survivor identified as our knights- and Queen's men." The crowd stared at the speaker, somewhat more interested.

He knew little of what had truly happened, but word had passed through the city on the occasion he visited that there had been news of the queen, and the news was quickly passed around.

"They were dishonorable men in the sight of our just lord- they bore three poisoned weapons between them." Any man loyal to Tarly ceased his activity and listened. "There was but one man of ours to live- the rest were chased through the wood and killed, without a trace of the bodies." At this, the woodcutter's man found doubt- one man- he could not have been the same man- unless Leek invented this one- or, possibly, there was another-

"No bodies?!" a man shouted from the crowd, interrupting his thoughts.

"The snow has fallen heavily, and it is like that the bodies have been buried beneath." The castellan answered, showing perhaps undue patience. "The Dun Fort asks for aught of worthwhile note to be brought at once."

"There was a second survivor!" The aged man raised, at last having his chance. Leek brought him forward immediately, and he moved in close to tell the castellan quietly.

"There was a man who lives yet- I passed him in the wood. He will confirm that it was the queen who sent him, should you send a maester for him." he confided. Thinking on it, it was not as well that the Duskendale knights had already identified the queen's men by their armor, but Leek may yet want one of them to tell it for true.

"The maester tends another man. I shall send a septon, and my morose tidings." Leek answered in an officious manner. It was odd for an unlettered man, but that was hardly a matter of great concern.

"What other man? How long does the maester of the Dun Fort take?" The crowd dispelled, interest lost. Leek turned, addressing the old man.

"As Castellan, I have done what I can about the matter. I do not concern myself with a man who would have attacked Duskendale." Attacked Duskendale- with five against the guard? "If you wish to pursue the matter, the learned man sees a local sellsword, who helped our men against the queen's wrath." A local sellsword- who? "He recovers at his room in the Seven Swords."

With Leek having promptly dismissed him, the woodsman's man found a welcome reception by the girl at the inn. He questioned it not, but due to the keeper personally instructing new hands, he guessed that the man must have lost workers recently.

"Where is the man recovering, good man?" he asked the keeper politely. Perhaps the maester tends to his wounds yet.

"He's in the same room as ever, as I'm told." He said as he pointed to the stairs." Watch yourself about him, the girl at front looked long at him." He's injured, one voice reminded him. You were young once, another admonished.

The aged hand took the stairs quietly, as though he approached some waiting beast. After all things, this man survived a battle with six armored queen's men, he thought.

"Good. Remember to move little." The maester offered as he closed the door behind himself.

"Are you able to take another man?" he asked the scholar, who smiled slightly.

"I have other work, you know." The words did not come to him that a knight's life hung in the balance, a man who could set right these wild claims about poisoned weapons and the queen's involvement and bodies that mysteriously disappeared.

He turned and looked at the room door behind him, ajar to reveal an armored man adorned with naught save a fullhelm, a steel masque to hide the face of a liar.

Catching up to the maester, words came to him quickly.

"You're going to help that man. Do you but know who this killer is? He couldn't get past the girl at the door, not for all the falsehood he's worth." The learned man did not laugh, but gave a slight smile.

"His name is Colt Tanner. He keeps to himself, and I ask little and less of men who keep to themselves. Ask aught a man here. Ever he works, silently and cautiously, all men say he hides something in that room of his."

"Why would you take the job if you know how dishonorable his life has been?" the woodcutter's man asked, face flush.

"I wanted ingress." He answered simply, walking away. "Fear not for the man in the snowy wood. The lord castellan has yet sent three men to recover him hence, if you have already been to him."

Maesters, thought he. What joke do they share between themselves?

There was naught for it, so he put aside the minds of the learned, and set about finding his pack, which was not far, Seven praised. Returning it to his back and taking up the logs once more, he found one-eyed Lorret, the man the woodcutter explained would take the logs and sticks.

"Your lot is a lucky one, elder." Lorret said when found, resting against a wall of his merchant's outpost. "With the advent winter, men in all places seek warm fires." He smiled, announcing a remark given and to be taken with a light heart. "As you age and die, you will see a little wealth at last, but perhaps not so much to afford a funeral pyre until spring."

The woodcutter's man thought little worse of Lorret, who jested oft. The man kept no score and expected none kept by other men. He was friendly, if rude, and if born to another father, he would be a fine lord in times of peace.

But the merchant's man was born to a father soon dead in the Greyjoy Rebellion, and had enjoyed little and less of peace.

Lorret helped him load the merchant's cart, taking care with the misshapen logs and keeping the faggots together atop them, binding the lot down with a length of cord, all that was necessary for a slow trip.

"You're no man to oft think, my passing acquaintance." joked the one-eyed man. "What troubles you?" he asked simply, the light heart not seen through his eyes.

"There's a man in this town all trust save I. He uses the name Colt Tanner."

"But he is not the sellsword you have never seen?"

"The girl who lives at the Seven Swords has seen him enough. He couldn't aside her suspicion in a fullhelm. Mark me, she's dead within a fortnight."

"I know naught of Colt Tanner apart from his job." he said after consideration "But should the girl know him near enough, ask her to see him out of his helmet, simply done."

"Seven save the men he killed, though, honest or no."

"But if he speaks for true, what choice had he? What man in reason duels six?" The old man knew not, and simply did not answer the question, conceding the point.

"The reason of the duel was not his, but we know nothing else about the reason. Perhaps he is a wanted man, one who flies the king's justice."

"And the Old Queen sends six men so far afield rather than a raven?" The woodsman's hired hand let the matter die. It was evident that Lorret had given it thought, and perhaps the man had right to kill the six knights, but masquerading as another man and feeding the castellan falsehood were dishonorable things, and such acts would be brought to light in a just realm.

And it was the lot of ever man with honor to make it so.

As he silently walked away from the merchant's man and the cart, he turned to hear the man call out to him.

"I see you more than thrice a moon's turn, but never do I ask who you are."

"No man names me aught. I am the woodcutter's man."


	30. The Iron Captain

THE IRON CAPTAIN

Royik's face was not happy in death. Having sent him to it, Geragon carried him to the sea personally and heaved his remains to the Drowned God. Next would come the reports of the survivors, and he did not expect good tidings as the prophet gave Royik's final rites.

The ironman had returned alive, but bled like a man already dead. He brought with him one his brother had chosen, and a third survivor arrived hours past.

"Boy." he began, adopting an appropriately disappointed tone. "Your captain wonders why Skull-break would choose you."

"T'en he and I are alike." The green boy mumbled. The kraken's bastard pretended not to hear.

"Tell me what killed your betters."

"T'ey were not killed, Ser…frozen."

"I'm no knight. Address me as captain or lose an eye."

"I found t'em still, visible t'rough t'e ice and still as death. Might be t'ey live, captain."

"And you know not what caused this." Geragon predicted, disappointed still.

"Elda asked me to step out onto t'e ice to fish. When I turned around, t'ey were gone. I think t'ey wanted naught to do with me, captain." That'll be because you're a green boy.

"When you found them, they froze but for Elda, whom you saw not."

"Right, Ser." The boy answered, not catching himself. "On t'e trail back, Royik kept saying he had fought, he'd given it everyt'ing. He lost his sword, m'lord. I know not where or when." As the boy finished his report, Osonka took him aside, whispering into his ear.

"It could be the White Walkers, my lord husband." He had, of course, considered it, but now he saw no other way the men could have been frozen into ice.

"Thank you." He responded artlessly. He wondered about the title she had given him. "Bring me Elda." The men listened and quickly took her before him, all eyes upon her as the questions began. "Did you encounter White Walkers?" he asked.

"No, captain." She answered swiftly. It was her way to do things without delay, from killing to drinking, and it made him wonder why she had taken so long to return... and why she had returned at all. The Elda he thought he had known would have taken her eight daggers and either leave them in the heads of eight Others, or be cut down by their crystalline swords.

"My half-brother might have told you about bending the knee. That if you do, you may rise again, but if not you will die."

"He has, captain. But your views differ. This I know for true." She was concealing something, he knew, but he also knew she would succeed. Not a man of them had even seen her out of her armor. He would not further the matter.

"What is responsible for the death of the party?" His questions were without subtlety and she was sure to notice, had she never before. Geragon Pyke was not a man to hide the truth or hide from it.

"There came a wave from the forest of ice and snow. I leapt out of the way. Most of the men froze at once." She paused. "When I looked over, Royik was fighting a man with dark skin with nails in it. He ordered me to find the boy."

"Why did you not come back with him?"

"I searched the ice along the shore, but he must have already gone."

"I have seen this man who killed Royik." Geragon announced to the ironmen assembled. For true, it is hard to forget a Mereenese with nails for a hide, he thought to himself, wondering how many battles the man had won. "It is now beyond doubt that he killed the first scouting party." Like as not, the black-skinned boy with him died.

He dismissed them, deciding there was little and less to be learned. A captain's time was precious, and he had already promised some to the palisade. Approaching the wooden fortification the men were building, it was clear that they would be safe from any man who would do them harm.

But no mortal band would be free from fear with the White Walkers afoot. It was strange for them to keep from killing the man with nailed skin, but there was naught that could freeze men solid save a White Walker, though perhaps the fabled Mance Rayder knew more about this land and its creatures. But if the Drowned God had found favor in the kraken's bastard, then the King Beyond the Wall knew naught about the masque.

His errant mind turned to the treasure once more, he knew with certainty that it would not be so easy to take as he once thought. He had ever prepared to pay the iron price for the masque of his ancestor, but it might be the ice price was still higher.

"Captain!" A man's voice called from afar. "We found them in a fishing boat." The ironman said as he neared. "What would you have us do with the survivor?"

It was a lone man, perhaps half his age, right arm cut at the shoulder and bleeding profusely.

"Is he a part of the crew- the northron ship's crew?" Geragon asked uncertainly. He had not seen the man before, but it was possible the northmen had sent a fishing boat out before he arrived with the ironborn.

"Please…" the man choked. "Let me find Reyne." He spat blood on the snow. "I know you…killed her father, but he told me to get her… it's naught to you whether she lives or dies…"

"If the maid left before we slaughtered you, she was wise. Do not think she would go back with you, fool." I have little and less concern whether she lives or dies, but your bleeding heart will not save her and my men want blood from you. He turned, facing north. "Tell me, what do you know of this land?"

"I can take you around the Others." he answered simply, the mob about him losing interest at his proven usefulness.

"Words are wind."

"But a northman's word has weight." Geragon paused at the man's response. He had traveled far and seen much, but if aught was sure, honor was a northron virtue.

"Speak."

"The warmth of the southron winds keeps the Others at bay, not any wall of ice. It was a long summer that drove the demons into the saga and out of the sight of men."

"Perhaps we shall tempt a lovely breeze in winter, then." the captain japed coldly.

"Burn the forest."

"Are you mad?!"

"Is it you would sooner cut down the trees and then burn them? It makes no matter which." As he spoke, the prisoner visibly built spirits. "Let the White Walkers in this frozen hell see how they find a burning one. the man said with measured word.

Around the two of them, whispers started. Geragon raised a hand to halt them.

"Do you know why the Essosi were truly here?"

"We captured one. It was a fool's quest. Their master sought a dragon." On another day, the kraken's bastard might have laughed heartily.

"Might be, northman, it was not all folly." he said aloud, forgetting himself. "But enough of that. Have more talk with my men of your scheme." He turned and began to walk off as the prophet tended the man's wounds. "Should we succeed with your aid, you will be sent on your way. My word is iron."

As a boy, he found it odd when a man would kill and rape as he pleased, but prickle over lying. In time he would learn that men would have little and less respect for him should his word count for naught. Fear might be taken. Respect must needs be earned.

He turned his attention to the ship, as he had planned. Whatever ways in which his mind wandered, his actions were deliberate, and oft as not determined long before. A captain who would stay afloat must ever search for flaws in his craft, he thought as he poured over the knots and tested the ballast for aught of imbalance.

Osonka was on deck, as he had seen her before, a heavy coat of furs concealing her form.

"A man has asked me to burn the wood."

"He is mad."

"I told him as such, but if the Walkers can freeze men into crystals of ice at a range, it seems there is naught for it but to try this utter madness."

"So you set the wood ablaze. What will you do then?"

"We head north for Scale Lake, as the wildlings call it." Their hunters had encountered local scavengers in the woods and forced information out of them. Scale Lake was massive and went halfway around a large snowdrift, by their description. Most importantly it could be found by walking along the frozen shore of the east.

"That is where you will find your masque, you think?"

"Yes. The Essosi we encountered were almost certainly looking for the same." Thinking on it without affect, it swiftly seemed clear that the story about the dragon was simply a cover for their true ends. After all things, he thought, a man like himself would have heard of such a thing.

Osonka began to turn away, possibly seeking out the other saltwives.

"Stay your course. I shall have you before we march on the morrow."

"I… would never mean to turn you aside, but my moon's blood has come…" she began to respond, only to be cut off.

"That's not like." The words came unbidden. "You, salt wife, are with child." Her eyes drew back and she turned to face him once more, expression quickly turning downcast.

"You know." she said simply, pausing for a moment as if to confirm what was already clear. "Please, I have taken no man-"

"Tell me his name."

"Listen, by all the gods of sea and sky-"

"Tell me or die." The air felt as though it grew colder.

"So, then… it has come to this. You would kill me."

"Not if he took you by iron."

"Did you not? Is it ever a man's right to take by iron? Is it yours alone?" She turned away, and his anger was gone. He had little and less heart to send her beneath the waves.

As the day wore on, times grew stranger. He had started to wonder what about her had changed, and why it had not been clear before. The warning signs had been there. She hid her belly with furs, not because a man could see it, but because she felt something growing within. She confined herself to the other salt wives because they would understand.

He sighed. How long could it have been? Ever had he believed it would take at the least a moon's turn before a woman could feel it, but he knew naught. If he asked, she would refuse to answer, just as she would not give the man's name. Did she fear for him? Did she fear for herself?

"It makes no matter." He spake to the sea, its waves kissing the ship, the ice, the shore. All things will be brought to light in time. Nothing can hide from the sea. The northman appeared behind him, no words given.

"If you have men with children, captain, you know. She lives. I must find her."

"Unfortunately for you, I do have men with children. I'm simply not sure which they are."

"I have told you how to pass the Walkers without harm."

"You told me you would see us beyond them."

"Farther north would put me farther from her. I have given my word twice, and if your word means aught, you understand." Geragon considered it.

"Might be I have another use for you. Not one woman here knows you; they may well speak to a prisoner with no voice."

"What do you suggest?"

"Woo the dark woman, she believes I think you a liar. Lay with her. Learn her secrets." The northman stood before him, head down, as though his shackled wrists interested him.

"Captain, I have given my word to three." The kraken nodded, sending him off the deck and back to work.

"On the morrow at hunt's up, you will take us north." The man understood and began to turn away. "What did they call you, northron?"

"My name is Hadverik."


	31. Reyne 5

REYNE

Her single foot had carried her far, but there was farther yet to travel. She growled quietly at the foot in her boot, the howling winds and snow turned it day by day to little more than a frozen lamb's leg, almost a second cane to add to the unwieldy nature of the first. Tears began to form in her eyes once more at the loss of her leg, and her freedom with it. As a girl she would run through the glass gardens, stepping on plants hither and yon, the servants trying valiantly to catch her.

She wondered if things might have been different had she a brother. Would she have been taught needlework instead of knots? Would she have sat as a lady rather than running through the keep? She would never know. Her father would return to no wife, her bastard sister was taken still in swaddling clothes by the ironmen who killed her mother. The day her father wept for the fate of a child not his own and his wife, he raged against the raiders and sent ships against theirs, killing the raven that bore words of warning from the king.

They would never understand, she thought to herself. But as she thought on it, she realized no man had. Ever had visitors wondered in whispers why he cared so much for another man's babe, a child brought about by a black sin. But it made no matter to Torrhen Harclay.

In the distance, Reyne could at last make out Storrold's Point, across the water as it was. Looking where she would have to walk, she found the mouth of a great river, beyond that a darker wood. The way was a long one, but the fog had cleared and the sun shined a little more.

Seeing the river from lesser distance put her mind at rest that there would be aught to do apart from thinking dark and painful thoughts, and aught to eat apart from kelp caught in the cracks in the ice that she could free with her stick. Already she could taste the salmon from the river, jumping wild and free, as though unaware of shadowcats. Such was life in Thenn and the Land beyond.

Before her there was a small cluster of scavengers digging kelp out of the ice. Can I pass without notice? It was not like. Can I pass without harm? She approached quietly and without sudden movement. One of the women among them stood to look at her and it occurred to Reyne that she must appear not at all like a northron lady, from her bearskin cloak to the spear she dragged along.

"Who are you, girl?" the first woman asked once two others were looking. The man with them looked as well, setting down his hooked instrument and basket.

"I wish only to pass." She responded quietly, doing her best not to invoke worry or ire, not revealing that she was a girl no longer.

"Is it for us to let her?" another woman asked the first, still shifting ice with a stick.

"It appears she is alone." the first answered.

"Please, there is no need." Would that there were not so many of them… Reyne thought as she skirted around the group, deciding arousing pity was worse than suspicion with these.

"Oh, but there are those who would help you, why do you refuse us?" A man started. There is naught for it. She stepped out onto the ice and dragged herself onto a floating mass, ignoring their shouts. As she poled herself away, it was odd to her how quickly she made the decision, but there she had little and less time to think on such things.

Once out on the water, the familiar southerly current was beneath her again, in spite of the northerly wind. The gods are good, she thought. The wind does not blow me back, but warms all the same. Is winter come in the North? It has long since arrived here.

Reyne poled once more to the shore as she approached the mouth of the river she had seen, deciding that passing in front of the river would push her farther out to sea, like as not making it impossible to return. However bitter cold it was, the chunk of ice would melt beneath her given enough time. She heaved herself onto the frozen shore and set to walking once more, taking up a second stick she found to steady herself beside her spear. Her back was straighter when walking, and at a distance, a man might not know she had one leg.

Reaching the river, Reye searched for a place to cross, spying a crone and a young man leading horses across, keeping their heads high. She silently filed into the herd of beasts waiting to ford as the man took showed them the way.

"Come now, beasts. The wights'll ride you if a man won't. Don't think that being dead'll get you off it." he said as he lead them across. "But if you fetch a fine barter, this year will be better than the last." The crone scoffed from the back of a mount near Reyne.

"This year is yet far worse than the last. The gods are cruel, and winter crueler still."

"Mother, half the herd died last year. A score before that we had no beasts to sell."

"Five parts in eight of the horses have died this year, and the year is not dead. A score before that, you had a father." The words hang in the air, answered by naught save the cawing of a crow.

Reyne pondered the thoughts as she crossed inside the herd, and still more once she had started around the 'haunted forest' as she heard the young man call it. Would the year be a good one or a bad one? The old woman said it had been bad so far and would only worsen. The young man said time remained for it to be better than the previous.

At last she came to the conclusion that neither could know. She felt strangely incomplete.

The feeling of loss did not leave her as she skirted the wood, and worsened as strange things came into sight. First it was one tree scorched from root to farthest reaches, then more and more, but not a single flame could be seen. When she slept, impossible visions of a burning keep came to her mind, throwing her into a fit when she woke screaming.  
Though naught could be seen through the thick forest, the top of a cliff face was visible in the distance. As she walked the shore of ice, primal tones rang out from far afield to the east. Are animals hunting? Are animals dying? Reyne doubled her pace, straining the strength in her remaining leg. She saw a small ship over her shoulder, but paid it no mind. The resounding echoes grew louder and she realized they were screams. With a gasp she rounded and stepped out onto the ice, seeing the ship draw nearer, but was unable to navigate the chunks floating in the waves. Fearfully, she threw herself painfully onto a chunk that was large enough, but broke when she landed. On her back, she thrashed wildly, struggling to get back to the ice shelf, but she cracked its edge with the butt of her spear. She fell completely into the water, releasing the weapon and stick as she struggled to keep above the waves with her arms, the frigid sea sapping her strength with every rapid heartbeat. Her mind began to fade.

Of all the gods of the forest, all I ask- she spat out water as she went under, a coil of rope striking her in the head.

Sights and sounds swam into her head as her frozen body fell painfully against the wooden deck. She tasted tar and tried to spit out the rope, but no more could she untangle her limbs in a death grip than move her jaw.

"A windfall, and a maid at that! The Ghozai thought you might have been a boy." A man's arms turned her body over and took her belowdecks, where the chill would not kill her. "Warm the girl!" The man shouted as Reyne struggled to get her bearings, head yet swimming. He tossed her rigid body into a heap of writhing, chained masses, screaming in protest.

"We're full up in here!" a man shouted.

"Please, let us go back!" The slaver who threw her closed the hatches to the lower decks and the woman's scream was cut off. Reyne struggled, trying to get to her feet, but she hit her head on a rack of shackled bodies above her, and remembered she had but the one as she fell back down, landing on a young man who struck her on the belly and shoved her into a corner, tears running free again.

The sleepless night passed with her body painfully cramped in that crouched position, not a man of them willing to talk to her save a curt remark on how luck she was, being so small, not being in chains, being so young, being less cramped with only one leg. Her leg was covered in human excrement and by morning, the stench was far worse.

At the break of day, a young man with dark skin came down, the captain shouting from above that he needed three slaves. Immediately the captives reacted, shoving each other back, forcing themselves to the front of the mob, everywhere they strained against the bonds. The crewmember grabbed the first three and ordered them up the stairs, into the light. Prisoners continued to claw at the trapdoor as it shut. Reyne made no move.

She crouched curled up until she heard screams above deck, at which point she flinched, but no more tears came. Splashing could be heard, and somewhere in her mind she knew the bodies had been hurled into the waves. At this sound, she did not even flinch.

Cramped in the lower deck with the heat and pressure of other bodies, Reyne lost all sense of the hours and days. Whenever she could force herself to eat, she tasted naught.

"Survive…" she muttered to herself in the dark, unaware of aught else but her mind, which she felt struggling as she once struggled with the prisoners and the frozen hell and the wildlings, but it fought no mortal enemies, only itself.

It was decided. She would preserve her life by fighting her perception of reality. She shook with fear as the dark skinned youth came down to the hull once more, but she stood, handing him her bearskin cloak, the gift from the gods to a girl called Reyne. She could not sustain herself on the one leg, and she twisted as she fell, landing in a thick liquid filth.

As would a lower animal, she fought only to breathe, and to eat, and when she ate she did so ravenously. The looks she received no longer concerned her, the beatings and aught else she suffered she no longer felt. There was a boy, younger, smaller, who would be pushed away when the lard and pike were carried down, and he would steal food from others, darting in and grabbing what other prisoners could not hold in both hands. Once he tried to steal from the beast with one leg.

"Let me-…" he screamed as the animal found its fingers around the boy's throat, the prey's arms and legs thrashing about wildly until at last they stopped completely, and the wild creature released the throat of the corpse, ignoring the stares it drew from the sane.

The young man of swarthy skin came down once more, this time with a prisoner, not food, drawing groans and shouts still louder from the captives, who forced the newcomer into the reach of the beast, now chained to the wall. How long had she been there? Was she awake?

The prisoner was an older woman. She stared at the beast blankly.

"I wager you wonder how I came to be here." There was no answer. "The ironmen destroyed our craft half a moon's turn ago. I know not how long I floated out there." The beast paid no mind.

It had traveled far, but there was far yet to travel.


	32. Myren 7

MYREN

She vividly remembered the letter she received from Denys Darklyn. It had been half a moon's turn since she wrote to him about Naath, how Brown Courser would be ideal, how she had still more duties to perform in King's Landing, or Duskendale, or wherever he would have her… but there was naught for it. She was going to the island, and the sellsword would go with her. She kept his letter with her, considering tossing it over the edge of the ship with the passing hour.

Brown Courser had simply shrugged when he heard what she read to him from the message. He acts as though going halfway across the known world is naught more to him than routine, she had thought. Even now as she glanced at him on the ship, standing on the bow in a fixed stare at the Arm of Dorne as they approached and passed it, explaining his intent to a passing hand.

"See, this is the last I see of Westeros for like as not the greater part in a year. And I never did get to see Dorne…" he broke off as the laborer walked away to other duties. You know not how well it is for you, sellsword. I shall be sober for the greater part in a year, or you will sleep with me, she decided. He had made no attempt so far, but it would be long before they reached Lys, where Myren expected to change ships.

"It would be easy to leave this fool's errand to the fool and disappear at Lys." she muttered to herself. But the gods if there were any never smiled on the fool, and there was naught to be done but accompany the cocksure knave and keep him from utter failure.

It was not the first time Myren had wondered if there were gods or no. Her fate was a mixed one, what with the deaths of Catelyn Blackwood and Darke, the loss of the maid, whatever she tried to teach her long forgotten by now. She frowned. By now, the girl had been taken back to her life by the knight that took her.

And yet, there were times the Swords Sable triumphed, the plot for Waters to carry the Red Death, the plot where false rumors would be spread about a Faceless Man, the discovery of the Valyrian artifacts. But I have only succeeded once, she thought, downcast.

It was the morning of the new century when Myren delivered the gemstone for the diadem, as instructed. _Maester Archen's Book of Poisons_ had been helpful in its creation, and she silently thanked Denys Darklyn for his gift of the tome when first they met. Even now, she could recite each page.

Myren remembered handing the gem to the rose lady, whose smirk and gait as she walked away could not match her own. Foolish crone, she thought. Already the powder is rubbing on your hands, and soon you will follow daughter's fool king, soon chaos will envelop the realm.

Night came slowly on the seas, no trees or mountains to block the last light of day, and Myren could see the sun as it set. Even after it at last dipped below the horizon, its red tendrils raked across the western sky as darkness crept into the eastern horizon. It was ever a wondrous sight, but ever did she see it and ever did she tire of it. It seems half my life I while away on ships, Myren thought.

As hand of Denys Darklyn, whether she enjoyed his tasks or no, she would complete them, and complete them without complaint. And so, she slipped inside as the hours waned to write the letter to the Lysene Sword, to her reckoning, a deformed woman who lived on the roof of a brothel.

_As we set out across the sea, we await already the reception due of fellow Swords. Our leader, Denys Darklyn, has requested you divulge the secrets you know to the passing officers. They will introduce themselves with the expected disguised pleasantries, so says he. Be it made known that attempts at trickery will be ill received and like as not punished._

From Denys's stories, there was an air a man must needs adopt to accomplish aught when speaking to the Sword on Lys. She was suspicious of even children, ignoring them and masquerading as another whenever a man came to ask questions of her. Darklyn specifically ordered them by letter that if ever she asked 'why', to strike her in the face.

By all accounts, the Lysene Sword was certainly insane.

Sighing, Myren found the raven pecking at feed corn tossed onto the floorboards of the ship. She carefully and swiftly seized it by the feet, forcing the letter upon the less than willing bird. As it flew ahead of them with the note, she did not envy the animal, it would have a much faster, but more monotonous journey, and then have to return to the ship, where it would be fed corn the next three moon's turns until it once again was made to fly far afield.

For true, a raven in flight was a free thing, but it had its own work, like aught else in the realms of man and beast. It bore messages as instructed, whatever seas and lands it saw as it flew were only half witnessed, for naught can be well met when under orders. In the North, men said that once the ravens could speak and be understood, and required no maester to handle them. How times have changed, she thought. But then, northmen believed in 'forest children' as well.

The night passed quickly and what dreams came she could not recall. At the sun's first grey light in the morning, the captain's man made clear to all passengers that a storm rose. It was odd to Myren somewhat that he would make this announcement, but many and more of the boarded were well to do merchants and even a few minor lordlings and the like. For them, this was a pleasure voyage to Lys, and nothing more.

Men said in hushed tones the bastard son of Robert Baratheon had been sent to the Stepstones, but Myren found it difficult to believe. It made no matter to her that the boy's self-appointed king of an uncle attempted to kill him, but that he had so easily give up the hunt for his brother's bastard. It had not been many moon's turns since the whispers began that the boy escaped, and already it seemed the search no longer existed. Was Edric Storm to fade into the realm of the null?

She shook her head as she paced the deck of the ship, capable of naught else. Even as a girl, the inner workings of kings and lords and the bastards thereof made little and less sense to Myren, recalling a memory of the puzzles of animals and colors that solely based the authority of the kings. Perhaps, she thought, the display of saltires and stars distracted the eyes of men from the true symbol of authority in the Seven Kingdoms. She had never seen it, but it took little thought to picture a colossal pile of swords fused together by dragon's fire.

For true, the only hope young Edric Storm might have is to be legitimized by a half-brother he had never met, who in all reason would sooner do anything else. And so, validity was an impossible thing for young Edric, but what validity was it? Would Storm be exchanged for stag, and a boy be able to sign with a royal seal?

It accomplished little and less to ponder such matters, but what apart from idle speculation would occupy her active mind, that which Denys Darklyn had always held so highly, that which he risked sending her across the Known World, that which he wanted not near him, where of more aid it should be, but with a fool sellsword, on a fool's quest.

This was no matter that she would simply discard as a matter of choice, but a burden Myren would force herself to leave behind as an effort of conviction and determination. It had been too long since fate and duty had separated her from her path of choice, and her resolve had dwindled into complacency. She approached the edge of the ship, feeling the sickness at last reaching her head, and she readied herself to expel whatever bile may come.

"I have been…" she started, burning venom flying from her stomach "… in error." The storm within her raged yet, and wondered the hand of Darklyn when it would finally calm, or would it kill her first. There was nary a maester aboard, or for leagues in any direction for that matter. For true, I have found myself far afield of aught I know, she thought.

And yet the sense of dread was less than expected, and she concluded that madness had taken hold of her mind. Madness, the ineluctable fate of the condemned not at peace with death, the refuge of the mind when faced with horrors unknown, the eternal rest of all men who dared stray from the fold of reason.

"But what other sorts of men are there." She asked herself, having long since decided the answer. Such was a satisfying way of talking to herself.

Myren slept well, however forcefully the ship tossed her stomach and its contents, and she rose early to find Brown Courser on the deck swinging his longsword, each stroke the same motion, stopping and starting again in the same two places in the air.

"I know naught of the ways of war, sellsword. Tell me, how many men have you killed that remain still for you?" In truth, each would only need be half so cocksure as you to believe a sword stroke to the neck would not kill him, she conceded within her mind, not allowing aught to show.

"I merely keep my arms moving. My skill will rust without a polishing now and again."

"What skill? The same you used against Ser Boros? How did that bout go, if I may?"

"Naught of this concerns the likes of you. I grow faster and stronger with the passing hour."

Myren shrugged tautly and abandoned her game of taunting the Sword, his skull too thick for her criticism. She concluded that aught further would be wasted words, but words were wind all the same. With that she turned to face the sea for the first time that morning. In the grey light only a few islands of the Broken Arm could be seen. So far out from the continent, what power remained to her? Ever had it been her lot to act as the heart and mind of the Swords Sable, with her ravens she linked Valyria to the Sunset Sea, sellswords and defrocked septons, whores, merchants, and common criminals. It had not surprised her what manner of men aided the Swords, her understanding that the crowns adorning made their masters no better was enough to sustain her belief in her companions.

She laughed to herself quietly. It was true that she controlled fools and cravens with each his own ends, and it was true that so far away from them, all power had left her, but what she would bear back from the Green Hell would set all aright. The Seven Kingdoms would once more be thrown into chaos, and at that moment, Vaesyr would with his promised cure arrive. Such was no idle hope, but a reality even as the hand crossed the sea. He had already described to Myren the instrument he had found half a year earlier, the device that would enable all 'sons of the Swords' to seize control of the realm and realms beyond as the Red Death spread on ships and seas, to the farthest island… already the trappings of power filled her mind.

"What would you have, if aught and all were to you?" a kissing-friend had once asked her, in the days when both were handmaids to one Walda or another.

"What of you?" she remembered asking.

"Oh, I should like naught more than a happy home with a true knight." She giggled. "But Myren, what would you have?" Myren had smiled.

"I would have it all."


	33. Straachan 5

STRAACHAN

He forced himself from the bed, recoiling in pain but pressing forward all the same. Straachan kicked a bucket once full of water beside him, unable to see such things with his fullhelm. He fumbled with the straps on the back as he removed what bandages he dared from his body, but gave it up. Can I ever remove my helmet, he wondered in anger, when my life is naught save a constant battle, and no man or maid alive knows my face to recognize it?

The maester had urged him not to move from bed, but such men would advise he walk away from every battle, such men knew all things of the heavens and the bodies of men and the charts and maps of the Known World, but naught of the life of a swordsman. It was a dance with death, and dance he would until the poison killed him.

Straachan considered armoring himself, but he had little and less desire to strain his wounds without cause, and simply took up his swordbelt as he opened the door and made his way down the hall with a limp. It was early in the bout that a man he could not see had succeeded in nicking his leg, and the wound irked him yet, sending shoots of pain up his body. All the same, he set out leaving the inn where he had lied about being a Sword Coliete mentioned.

Out on the street, he decided that the other man would be near the maester's quarters in the Dun Fort, the scholar having told him that one of the queensmen survived. It was also true by the learned man's word that the rumor of the Old Queen sending his killers was whispered throughout the city. He forced his anger down and kept his pace as he passed a man chanting that the night was dark and full of terrors, intent on learning what he could from the knight.

As he reached the keep, the men at the gates were unwilling to allow him ingress, but at the mention of the maester both relented, like as not deciding there was little and less damage an injured sellsword could do. He asked after the keep's maester, and though the servants visibly questioned about his presence, such a request was easily granted and he bothered them little.

"This is most interesting, Ser. You affirm the former regent instructed you to watch Duskendale, and this is when a man at arms assailed you?" Straachan heard the maester's voice as he climbed the spiral stair. "Then wherefore-" he began again after a pause "-did she require you kill a maid? Surely she was not with this man." As the wounded man neared he could hear the faint voice of the killer.

"Had… we killed her, the poison would not have… been discovered. The sellsword's poisoned sword felled her…" She was slashed across the neck with a knife, he remembered.

"Were it I with a poisoned blade…" Straachan began as he opened the door "…why do I now die of poisioning?" He asked of the other wounded man, frowning now as he stared up at the maester.

"Somehow, completing the mission… is less satisfying that I must die as well."

"How did you survive?" Straachan asked, ignoring the knight's sentiment.

"An old man sent for me. Tell me, how far … could you carry the maid before you left her body … and buried her … in snow?" Rage filled his eyes and he seized a knife from the table. "Would you kill a moribund man?" Looking over into his eyes, it seemed the shocked maester wondered the same.

"Why did the Old Queen send you after Coliete?" There was naught to be had killing his only source of information, his only source of purpose.

"Do you dream of her? She makes no matter to the Iron Throne." Straachan had never dreamed of Coliete, only of Sasera, to whom he sang. Out of all the pains of his life, he wished he had never learned her true name, the name of the girl who died only days before her. He gripped the hilt of the blade tightly, as though strangling the knight before him.

"Then wherefore-"

"We were following some fool's tale about a conspiracy, nothing more. The cunt told us her handmaiden had gone with Ser Strong … we all knew it was a lie-"

"The conspiracy is real. Men call it the Swords Sable. You pursued it for true, and you only just missed it. The Swords have taken all manners of friends from me." The wounded knight said naught, turning his head to face the low ceiling, the charts of the heavens thereupon.

"You are no sellsword." The man concluded. There was little point in denying it.

"It makes no matter, no man remains to name me by my true name. I shall never hear it again."

"What will you do, then?" The question was one he had already asked himself.

"I came here that I would seek revenge, blinded as ever by anger." He answered at a length, pausing to exhale deeply, the air moving through the crude grate below the shadowed holes out of which he saw. "But the Old Queen hunted the same foe as I, or at least told you as much." The other man nodded. Straachan appreciated honesty, and men who did the same.

"Perhaps… no, fuck it all, I'm still dying." The man coughed and rolled over. The maester saw him out of the room quietly.

"He needs his rest if he is to live. I fault not your anger, but this is my lot."

"I fault my anger. I fault my thick skull that saves my life when men of his sort bash it and damns every woman and child I try to help." He paused, no singer to come up with words at will. "I fault not your will to preserve him… for true you remind me of another." The healer nodded softly.

"And how is that?" he asked.

"He was a maester, but high-strung and … as angry as myself. A man wonders what he might have done with a different calling." Straachan exited the hall and the Dun Fort without further word.

On his way back, he once more hobbled past the place where the man was chanting, but he saw no sign of him. Like as not, he's a priest of some sort, he thought. It seemed an idea of reason given the man's words, only the idea of which he could remember. This time he passed a man, armored and flanked by women, shouting his message rather than chanting.

"You, Ser- would you grow old in armor as the kings bugger us with spears?" he asked forcefully of a passing man in mail, like to be some veteran. He did not answer, but a beardless boy did.

"Where would you send us to die? King's Landing? Would you have us act in treason, like that conspiring fool?" Straachan paused in the road, pretending to adjust the bandages across his chest. The youth was spirited, and perhaps knew more than most, but was nescient as any other child.

"The crowned will have their desserts, with you or no. Women admire strength and courage." He put each arm around each waist. "But I could be wrong." The mummers laughed together, and the wounded man might have laughed at the farce they put on, but his anger was too great. I cannot remove my helmet yet, he thought.

"Tell me, then- where is Denys Darklyn whose man you are?" He asked loudly, approaching with a degree of strength, concealing the full toll of his wounds. The man turned his head, a gleam in his eye beneath his halfhelm.

"Our leader is no king to sit a throne where all men must see him and hail, but he shrinks from no challenge. What is your name, knight?"

"I am Astaron and no servant of this realm." The full falsehood of his words was realized to him as he remembered the maester's sacrifice for the realm and its men. He would never have died for naught, not the man Straachan knew.

"Then perhaps there is some use for you." Darklyn's man said, the gleam unblinking. "Men with honor have already joined the party for Harrenhal, where they will hear the words of our leader as he announces the final push." It took all of the wounded man's will to keep from decrying the notion of men with honor signing to be Swords. He kept his anger in his unseen eyes that it may not creep into his voice as he spoke.

"Then go to the God's Eye and the haunted keep I shall; your party need not slow itself." As he spoke he turned to go, deciding the gods would smile on his use of the maester's name instead of that of a known Sword. A small crowd had formed behind him as he spoke, and he saw them as he turned to return to the Seven Swords for his armor. Among them, many and more faces were indifferent now, turning like to resume their work, some faces showed concern, some resentment, but only one held a cold degree of suspicion, and it was the face of an old man.

As he found the inn, his concerns shifted to his wounds. Hard riding would kill him. He sighed. There was naught for it. He would simply have to allow himself to recover, which could take half a moon's turn or more. Armoring himself would wait until then. But how long have I to wait? His hand raised and made a fist over his heart and for a moment he paid no mind to the world about him.

"All men must die." He said softly to himself as he slowly ascended the stairs, blankly finding his room. How many days and nights do I have? How many more chances will the gods show me to find Darklyn? He closed himself within his room, throwing off his helmet at last. In here there was no reason to pretend to be some other man, Colt Tanner, Astaron… even a nameless knight. In the small room he more or less stole from the Swords, he was naught more than a man with a sword, from an island far away. All of his enemies were about, and all friends gone.

He laid his wounded back on the bed, feeling the straw through the bandages and the fabric. Should I heal well enough I am like to survive the trip to Harrenhal, I shall kill Denys Darklyn with my dying breath, he decided as he lie there, staring at the planked ceiling. He had no knowledge of what Astaron had truly done in King's Landing, where the gold cloaks killed him, but he had little and less time to live, and Straachan accepted that he would never know. He would never know about Barta and Motte and Reynisi, but he had protected them as well as he could. The thought struck him.

"Did I protect Coliete as well as I could?" he asked himself aloud, hands coming over his face, as though he would rub away doubt and untruth from before his eyes. If there were aught he could have done, he would have had to have anticipated the kidnapping, an impossible feat. He knew not why the kidnappers did not simply kill Coliete rather than taking her hostage to draw him out, certainly considering how they killed her all the same. Straachan was certain for six parts and ten that he would have tracked them down all the same, but perhaps the queensmen were simply indifferent about how they went about their deeds. All he rightly remembered of the day before her death was her story, how she talked on and on without pause, for true as though a man had stoppered her, and only then could she let it out.

The last thing she told him floated to the surface.

"Myren said there was a maester named Bailton of Oxcross and he took their friend away and they were going to get him back but Bailton must have escaped and Myren was going to have him killed, please Ser Straachan, please, you have to find Bailton of Oxcross; I think he is a porter of sorts."


	34. He of that Beneath the Waves

HE OF THAT BENEATH THE WAVES

Geragon Pyke saw no sign of weakness in the northman. Ever he led the ironmen, pushing farther and farther into the north, seeing nary a foe.

"My father was a wildling. I first saw him at the age of two and ten, when he stole me from my mother." Hadverik would say. "He took me here, and I learned their ways, I learned as must needs no other boy be allowed." He spoke no more of his life, and the men of Pyke and what else were well pleased to be rid of such 'maudlin muddle', but the outsider paid their dissent no mind. The ironborn were not men to hear one another's hardships and thoughts, such things a man took upon himself, and kept to himself. It's like, thought the captain, that Hadverik was of much the same stock, and merely stated his background to the end of explaining his skill at tracking and avoiding.

The kraken's bastard contemplated such a skill, his mind flowing freely as to why the men of the Iron Islands did not take up hunting, when on the continent. They were no strangers to bloodsport and killing for food, was it the mere idea of being on the green lands and necessity of harvesting and carrying their prey? The true krakens did not say 'We do not sow' out of sloth, but strength, and such unwillingness to hunt for game was woefully far from the Old Way. Ever had he thought of himself as a warrior of the Drowned God, but also as a man of the Known World. He had seen much and more in his years of sailing, strong men of other lands, brave warriors with skins of different shades.

But with other matters at hand, such ponderings made no matter.

Firstly, the mass of them had seen no White Walkers, but that meant naught to the odd man silently killed now and again. There was no end to the disappearances, and soon Geragon numbered the company at little more than three score, where at the outset he had half again that amount. The women, however, did anything other than disappear.

First it was Elda. She was no man's salt wife, and no man's to order save her captain, whose orders she accepted swiftly, though not swiftly of foot. The child she bore within her grew more apparent with the passing hour, as though in a race with all of the other sons of the sea, whose mothers steadily slowed and betrayed erratic behavior. The prophet and the quartermaster had both separately taken him aside to ask what he planned to have done about the matter.

"What order can I give Elda? Would you that I slay her child? What of the father? Should he not have some influence?" The iron bastard knew the answer, asking the question to explain his position.

"You know this will get the lot of us killed." The quartermaster's tone had been different from the man of the sea, a favored companion of his.

"A man cannot with honor kill a babe." He responded, cutting off the shipman's argument. "You know this, and you would have one of us do it all the same." He scoffed, jabbing the man in the belly. "The last childkiller of Pyke is dead or worse, like as not worse, at the hands of Bolton's bastard."

He remembered the prophet had demanded the fathers be summoned, but he turned away his friend, telling him the men would never be found if not already. It was odd, though, that none had claimed his child-to-be, it was not unheard of for men to share salt wives when far abroad, and surely the men themselves would have little shame in it. But not a word was spoken, not a word save whispers.

The path continued for but a short way and the company was forced to resume on the beach, hoped by many and more to be less treacherous, what with that which hid from them in the trees. Others were less certain.

"How do we know he knows what he does-" a man began to a neighbor, breaking it off when he looked over his shoulder to find Geragon. In truth, the captain wondered if the man had created some elaborate ruse, meaning to kill the lot of them off, one by one. But he gave no corner for his doubts, and dismissed the thought. The man had honor, of that he could be sure.

The black of night grew thin in the sky and streaks of red light could be seen. It was a sight he had seen more oft aboard than afoot, rarely from the Land of Always Winter. Here the skies were ever dark, even on the day he sent the first party, consisting of three men out to prove themselves like green boys and Elda's sister Ilda. Naught was known of their fate, but it was a fool who would hope for their survival. The captains thoughts were interrupted as ever, this time by a single shout from Hadverik.

He made his way through the gathering throng of ironborn, forcing himself to the front. The northman gestured toward a splotch of blood in the snow, uncovered from that freshly fallen by the imprint of his own boot.

"How long… a fist of days?" Hadverik said nothing, and set off once more. It was possible that the blood was Royik's, but experience told him otherwise. They set to walking once more, eyeing the wood. It had been his own decision not to burn it immediately, but only in the event that the Others overcame them. From time to time men carrying the torches had visibly considered it, but there was little point. The Walkers were doing little and less to molest their passage, and even if the ironmen could set fire to enough trees at once, they would never be able to burn the same again, and the fire would like as not expand out of control.

And so they proceeded into the terrors unknown as the sky slowly brightened. There were days in the land where a man could not tell day from night, but today the sun shone clearly, and the captain could see a body on the frozen shore ahead of them. As he and the northman approached it, it was clear that death had come to the carrying woman, and it came in the form of the red object lodged in her belly. The remainder of the company neared and Elda cried out, recognizing her bruised and bloodied sister first.

A chorus of muffled uncertainty began behind them as Hadverik inspected the corpse and the object itself. It was a small crimson tube with a crystal letting out a small amount of light. Inside the stoppered tube were vestiges of blood, and as Geragon pulled it out, the other end of the tube ended in a point, with a hole only a hair's breadth wide.

"What sort of a man kills another's son- before it is born, no less!" asked a fearful voice from the crowd. The iron captain had seen many a corpse in his day, and many killed in such ways, and knew the same of his men. He suspected, however, that the deaths and the freezing winds and the distance from the ship had unnerved them. A man of the Drowned God belongs with the sea, he reminded himself.

"Elda- was your sister pregnant before I-"

"No, captain, she had not taken a man, by he beneath the-"

"Enough." The iron woman's cold and direct nature was gone; it was clear to all. "We know who is responsible for this." He looked out to the throng, meeting the eyes of the women. "We know who is responsible for all of this." He elected to speak as he walked, and the company followed. "Some days ago, a man and a boy passed us and I sent a party after them. One of our own raped Ilda, and left her here to die."

"What of this fetish in her belly?" Hadverik asked, uncertain of what to call the red object.

"I have seen much and more on my travels. This is bloodmagic. The man and the boy who passed us must have found Ilda here, alive or no, and stuck her with it. The object is like to be part of some ritual to thrust the same fate upon other women."

"This man… I saw him. He had nails in his skin." Elda spoke, head down. "Why? Would he condemn me to this child out of simple cruelty?"

"It was not his own design. Hadverik tells me he once had a leader, a Valyrian." He explained as he walked, ice crunching beneath his boots. "This man would have been behind it all." Geragon was convinced his summation was more than his wandering mind's supposition. Many a time had his conclusions proved premature, but this time it was as though the sea itself called to him.

He was not wrong.

The prophet said the rites and the company was once more underway, and Geragon decided they had missed Royik's and Skull-break's party frozen alive. But with what he had already seen, he could not dismiss the story entirely. In the middle of his thoughts a shadowcat attacked a straying ironman, and he only noticed as they killed it.

"A captain must be attentive." He said under his breath, sighing to himself. He would think no more on matters about which he knew little and less.

The lot of them came upon a vast lake; the kraken's bastard could see naught after half a hundred fathoms for the mist. Bodies were scattered about, three of his own men and the black child of so many days ago. But he had little time for the dead. The masque was within his grasp, in his hands he could feel himself touching it already, the gold terror of the sea against the black of night, the object he could wield to unite his hold once more and the kings of the green lands would shiver as the Old Way was taken up among the men of Pyke, and arms against them.

A man called him over to a place by the lake's edge, where he said he had found some trace of a creature, a tooth, a claw, a-

"This is a scale." It was a grey color, freshly fallen from the beast's armored hide. "Your prisoner told you no lies." He said to Hadverik, who looked to be uncertain of how to respond.

"This can mean only one thing, captain." He said at long last.

"IRONMEN!" he shouted to the killers and the crew. "We have a dragon awing. It is our enemy and will kill us without another thought. The beast expects no mercy and we shall not disappoint. We shall not show weakness and die before the dragon. We shall not show craven hearts to think of fleeing without the masque. We do not show!" The men echoed his words, emboldened to fight even the mightiest dragon.

"Geragon…" He heard his name, little more than a whisper, from the rear of the crowd. As he approached deliberately and unafraid, what he saw made him for the first time in his days feel the fear of a green boy. The water of her womb had already frozen on the ground, but standing on the ground, unfrozen and unshaken was a child, breaking its own umbilical cord with razor teeth. In all appearance, it was a girl, her hair white and already growing from her scalp.

"The Valyrian… " he began without thinking "…this was his failsafe…" The babe walked unhindered to the lake's edge as a man called out a dragon flying above and the brothers and sisters crawled out of their mothers' wombs, forcing them into spasms of severe pain. The children gathered on the frozen lake as the great beast landed behind them and the man with nailed skin dismounted. He bowed low and the Valyrians cackled at his cleverness.

Unexpectedly, he spoke.

"You have done well, captain. Perhaps you shall have –some- trinket before I kill you all. He gestured to the dragon and the titanic beast forced its claws through a thin part of the ice at the very center of the lake, drawing out a small object it tossed at Geragon's feet.

"The masque…"

"Good. Now die."


	35. The Ghozai

THE GHOZAI

Reyne's madness had visibly worsened. He had never loved her, not even as the first girl he had seen in untold years, but all the same she was another like he, those without names outside the many realms of men, isolated and damned to a new existence of invisibility. But there was naught for it, no amount of bargaining and hoping could convince him to forsake reality.

And so it came to be, as though the gods of Ghis had at last taken wing and abandoned men to famine, all matters former were forgotten. He would never use his true name, not even within his own mind. Ever must he avoid acting the Ghiscari, no octopus eggs or dog meat would he desire, no tokar would he wear.

"I am a man of Ghozai" he said aloud, with deliberation. It was the first of his many rules of deception. To convince another, you must first convince yourself.

As had Fa'shar, he had taken up a new identity, if not a new name as well. What sort of name had a man of Ghozai? Would Fa'shar know?

He formed a decisive plan and found the man tying and checking knots. His partner had already mastered the speech and manner of the Lorathi, and the Ghozai intended to do all within his control to preserve, nay, strengthen the ruse. He approached silently and spoke little, concealing his uncertainty from the crew. For days now the two of them had been aboard the trader's ship and for days he had spoken little and less, letting no man make aught of his acts.

"My companion, I implore of you, tell me of home, if you would."

"This one would scarce know much and more, but should the Ghozai be in need, simply need ask, you may be sure." He answered as he led the boy up the ropes to retie a knot on the edge of the sail.

"What of the Doom, what fate befell my land, if you would, my companion."

"Already he is close to the manner, but the history he does not know. Shall this one tell him of the broken pyramids and the waves, where only monkeys dare to go?"

"All I ask, in the manner, what was it then, what is it now?

"Men whisper that slavers yet walk the doomed shore, as they once did before the tidal wave, centuries before." It was clear to him the Lorathi enjoyed overmuch his role, how the pauses and concealed details made listeners hang on to every word. As such, it was clear to him that he would attain little from pursuing the matter, and decided he would simply adopt a roundabout way of speaking, accompanied by an unhurried gait with small steps.

Ever his gait would take him down into the dark, belowdecks where Reyne, having forgotten herself entirely, wallowed in the filth as would a beast. He bore naught in his heart for the maid, but he would carry her bear's pelt until she remembered her name. If he owed her aught, he would grant her that.

From what he had seen, the vessel's honest captain was little more than a manager of affairs; no true power resided within him. The tacking and direction of the nameless ship as it sailed to Lorath were for the sail boys and the winds to decide. As far abroad of land as the crew had taken her, the ship had suffered few bodies to be thrown overboard, excepting slaves, but no provision was to be made. What I suffered as a slave, so will all of these, he decided. It is naught to me.

After all things, the Ghozai had never been a slave.

A day came to pass that he decided he would simply call himself Monkey, perhaps after the last denizens of his homeland, perhaps because he had ever been fond of the creature, climbing about skillfully and freely through the trees, free as he always had been.

They were a crew without rank, a group of men guided by a sense of self and naught more, to the Ghozai's observation. The captain spoke freely and honestly with rowers and sail boys, living among them and making no attempt to place himself higher. Once during a fair wind he asked a fist of them their thoughts, and Monkey was among them. Though the captain appreciated blunt men, the lot were wary of such a question.

"Our count of slaves, if this persists, wise one, will be half by the next moon's turn." The captain nodded humbly at Monkey's words.

"I have heard little and less from you, but I confess already I harbor my regrets about killing three slaves. It was an unwise design to instill order on the ship, and achieved only more blood in the water." More and more it seemed creatures of the deep were surrounding the ship.

It was not a fortnight at sea before captain and Ghozai could be seen together frequently, and as the sky darkened one well clouded night, the older man asked the boy if he'd take a drink.

"They called me Caht'oreb before the worst night and day of my life." He began as he settled into his cheap poison, some Ghiscari yellow, or perhaps green that had yellowed. Monkey was silent, allowing him to go on. The two of them had shared many a conversation this way. "It came when I was a younger man, it may even have been spring. I was brash and thought much and more of myself. Any who would criticize me were hateful, any who would help me were overbearing."

"I see. As a merchant, I had a similar nature, even though my master and I were failing." Monkey had in Ghozai had been taken on as an apprentice by a seafaring trader of simple goods. The wine had been sweet, but the taste slowly turned tart.

"There was a day when I fought with my brother, I accused him of all manners of misdeeds." He paused, seeming to notice the shift in the wine as well. "I killed him in my anger." Monkey had only tasted wine once before, but this time he was certain he hated it. He drank deeply. "For years I have been haunted by my misdeeds- there are men who say I must needs die for them. Can you imagine it? They injure out of rage, steal out of greed- and they say I have gone too far." Caht'oreb took a drink and calmed down to a degree, and the youth wondered how he remained calm at all times, what with the wrath in his heart.

He discovered the man had been born in Slaver's Bay, and ran off to join a crew before his tenth nameday. He would play his 'fool's games' as he called them, comparing cocks and making up lies in his mind about other men to make them seem the worse. But he harbored no great regret about his boyhood, no man had ever told him the truth that all are but wicked fools. He did lament, however, that so many other souls were ignorant of the painful truth.

It was the middle of the night, the sky black as ink, when at last the Ghozai dismissed himself. Was it that the captain is simply fond of me? He asked himself, considering the man's kindness. No, he acts as though he is fond of all.

As Monkey found a space to sleep belowdecks, he decided that Caht'oreb was an unusual man, and it was of little use to dwell on such matters. Sleep came quickly.

In the darkness, light fell upon a sandy shore, and a silver surf with its calm ebb and flow. He knealt next to the waves, reaching out to touch what substance could be so beautiful. A hand in the water, now calm, reached back to touch his. But the hand was not his own.

For true, it was a like shade, but the boy attached wore the garb of a slave, the eyes with an empty, dead expression. The Ghozai stood, wanting naught to do with such an image. Out on the silver sea he beheld a man walking toward him, faltering somewhat, but walking all the same.

The scene faded as light woke him, and he found it was the light from the trap door opening. As the Ghozai boy rose, he looked to see Fa'shar holding a slave against the ground and shouting at another.

"What-" Monkey began as he stumbled over. The other slave was a woman covered in bruises, but the Lorathi gave no quarter for her pain.

"Start aught of this foolery and this one will blacken a second eye of a slave, he will." Oddly, he found Fa'shar's words to be well understood, gathering a fight had broken out and his old partner kept the goods from damaging, as he might say, but only the gods knew how the Lorathi might have said it.

Do the Ghozai keep with gods? He asked himself, suddenly unable to remember. He had once heard the Valyrians held naught higher than themselves. The gods of Ghis floated about vaguely in his memory, but he soon disregarded them entirely. Perhaps he would ask Fa'shar what he knew of the faith of the Ghozai, but perhaps not. He had asked much about his home, a home he remembered more and more with the passing day. Far be it from the Ghozai to adopt distinctly Westerosi pride, but matters of his home were excepted.

The fool's squabble had been settled without a slave's death, much to the captain's good word. The Lorathi made further measure to quash aught that might arise in the future, placing Monkey and two others as alternating watch over the slaves. The watch resented its post, but made no motion against it.

When the sail boy with white tips on his hair turned over his office, it was the darkest of night and the Ghozai accepted grudgingly, rising from sleep to do little and less apart from stare at slaves who begged him for things, knowing, for certain knowing, that there was naught to give.

"Please… we've nary a-"

"We, aboard this vessel, have cut our drinking by a quarter, as already you should know." The youth replied, cutting off the man's request. Ever it was the same. Are slaves for true so unaware of their place? He did not seek an answer to his own question, finding it staring at him from the back of the mound of writhing bodies. Never did her eyes leave his, he would look elsewhere, he would wave gestures at her, but to no effect. Time passed and the other captives caught on, and soon all were staring at him, watching him sweat and squirm.

At last the hours had passed and the heavy rower came to relieve him.

Once more his feet found their way to the captain's quarters, and the man allowed him in with a soft smile. He poured a simple spiced wine as he spoke.

"How was it, then? The Lorathi who brought you aboard conjures up the cleverest of chores. He is cleverer yet to manage to not once include himself."

"Slaves, I find, my captain, never tire in their asking." He said as he accepted the tin tankard.

"Ah, but are we so different? A man must never think himself better than another without knowing for true. Many battles have been lost for it. Pride is a folly, sin or no." The Ghozai considered it, deciding that since he had never been a slave, he would know naught about it.

"It is not, for true, their wishes I cannot indulge, but their stares I cannot endure." This time it was the captain who paused, taking a drink.

"They have that way about them, yes? It is true, my line of work is not one I desired, not even one I have come to accept, but it is my post and the company gives my wife and daughter gold on the year's end." He swallowed the remainder of his wine. "But there is one among them whose stare haunts you even now, no?" He leaned forward. "What is her name?"

"I know naught of her save the pelt I keep."


	36. Myren 8

MYREN

Her usual occupations had of late grown tiresome. She found the sun high in the sky as she contemplated what strange sound she had heard the night before. As a Sword, she was to observe. Plots to kill her, after all, usually came with little warning, if any. Myren had wasted no time concluding that she had heard it from the ship's stern, but the sound itself was uncertain.

What unsettled her was that she dreamed she had been thrown overboard in a chest. It had taken only minutes to die, but they were agonizing minutes fraught with clawing at the wooden walls and beating on the lid. Water poured in and killed her. When she woke, it was the darkest hour of night and she heard that same sound again, the sound of the box hitting the waves.

Brown Courser would almost certainly be unnecessary, but it stood to reason to inform the cocksure knave what had transpired if for no other reason than to account for the slight chance he would accidentally encounter evidence. The sellsword somberly nodded upon hearing, as though having expected it.

"I heard that sound myself. The captain would have been closer to it." They turned toward the stern, seeing the captain at the helm. "He knows." Walking deliberately with a hand on the pommel of his sword, a small brass shape meant more to prevent the hand from slipping rather than for striking, Myren casually wondered about his focus, scanning the helm and the man at its wheel. She did not think she had seen him before. The two of them reached an acceptable proximity to shout to the strange man.

"Don't ask him who he is."

"Who are you?"

The man stared down and responded quietly. "I am the captain. I saw no need to… introduce myself." Myren had thought the same.

"Well, you aren't the same one." Brown Courser explained. "Every day before it was a man with a pockmarked face. He was missing an eye. I liked him enough."

"Had I seen him, I would tell you. Might be that he… remains asleep." The captain spoke with a Tyroshi accent. From his expression he seemed to ever be searching for words. She took her eyes off him when a short man with dark hair stopped in front of her and stared at her. Myren sidestepped him and he heaved himself onto the ropes, scaling them with apparent difficulty. Looking back up, the captain and the sellsword were talking quietly on the deck next to the door to what appeared to be the captain's quarters.

"Let me… I shall…put your fears to rest." He opened the door and revealed a hallway, two doors and a large room at the end, where she assumed dining took place. The doors they passed read 'Captain' and 'Owner', a heavy lock on the latter. "We use this for the… helmsman." He produced a key and unlocked the door. The captain stood in front, but she caught a glimpse of an open wooden chest and an empty bed as he called for him halfheartedly.

As the search began, the crew had expected stories. The helmsman had been drinking, and they thought he was asleep.

"We must needs examine the room without oversight." Brown Courser nodded, accepting it without thinking about it. Myren was unwilling to consider the actions of the captain suspect so soon, but should they find aught connecting him to the disappearance, she would not want him to know.

The plan was simple enough. The sellsword had been talking to a darker man who feigned a passing interest in collecting a debt from the helmsman, or his room, whichever the captain would prefer. He allowed the key for a short time, and Myren slipped into the room.

"Don't see much. Looks like it's cleaned." The swordsman commented as his acquaintance returned the key. "Might be the captain respects the dead." She allowed it as a chance, but had her misgivings.

"It is like that he wants naught in here for us to find." She searched through the papers on the table as her like as not unlettered companion checked for any signs of a struggle. The way he would tell it, they were everywhere. As a personal guard before the Swords Sable, he had learned how to read a room, frequently having been forced to find people who disappeared.

"I can't smell any ale." Astute. Cocksure, but astute.

"The letters read nothing suspicious. What was the helmsman's name?"

"Bogothi, I recall."

"I expected as much. Not one of the papers were signed with that name and not one addressed him." He either borrowed them or stole, and I am inclined to believe the latter."

"How's that?"

"They all make mention of the ship's owner."

"It's his ship."

"They have been compiled here deliberately."

"It's his room."

"There are words on top of his writing." Patience. "Whatever man wrote them, it was not he, and it was more recent." Brown Courser appeared to grudgingly accept the explanation. Myren turned back to the papers as he ran a hand over notches in a timber. The script on top of the owner's hand mostly commented on details here and there, more than like making sense to only one.

"I have an idea." Why? "When we were asking around, I met a man who said he never knew the helmsman to drink. Told me he had a kinship with the old fellow. Might be he knows about the papers." She allowed it, having better things to do. There was more than enough time available, since no man knew her to miss her on the deck. The sellsword closed the door quietly behind himself and set out to meet another one of his acquaintances. Perhaps it was a habit he developed long since.

"It makes no matter." She muttered to herself, passing by the chest and searching the bed. It had already been searched for fluid, as she had expected, but running a hand along the underside, she found a rotten tooth that looked to be a man's. Doubtless it had been seen and ignored. Black teeth fell out for no cause at all.

Looking about the small room, she decided she had better simply think about all she had seen. From experience, Myren knew that it was ever easy to forget about some detail noticed earlier.

In the darkest hour of night, the helmsman was deliberately thrown from the stern, living or dead. We spoke to everyone who could have done it, and not a man of them gave sign of suspect nature. One of them is an adept liar. Her thoughts turned to the captain, stumbling over his own feet with uncertainty. He had vehemently denied any knowledge of what had happened, and she was inclined to believe. Firstly, his having of the keys made little manner with the chance the helmsman could have been killed outside his quarters at night. Secondly, she failed to imagine a reason he might have wished for the man's death. He might have been killed for any reason at all, but nothing went back to the master of the ship.

Turning once more to the papers, it occurred to her that she had not determined why the helmsman was interested in the owner. A moiety of the information discussed simple business information, in this she detected little out of the ordinary with the exception of a place where the owner's writing might have been forged, but the text concerned nothing more than his recent actions, dated to half a moon's turn before. Myren wondered about the notations for time. Most of them were simply passing days with a reference point, like as not a system the helmsman or the owner used merely for his own purposes. Looking over them more closely, she found that the papers with his own hand were older than the forgery.

She set it down and took a step back, allowing the current of her mind to run freely. It was beginning to come to her at last. There was a reason they had been using the owner's room for the helmsman, a reason he had been looking into his papers, and a reason there had been naught from him in days. He was dead.

Finding footing in the flow, she calmed herself as she worked out the details. The captain told her he had been using the room for Bogothi, not that it was really his room or to ignore the sign, or anything. Somehow the captain had leave to decide how the room was used, and no reason to rid it of the owner's papers.

Myren forced the stream of thought to slow. Jumping to conclusions, certainly if she were right, would for nine parts in ten mean certain death. She had to find the captain. It was unlikely he was involved, but he would be able to tell her more about the owner and his demise.

Her head jerked as a sound came from the hallway, breaking the deafening silence. Slowly backing away from the door, she held herself against the wall under the hinged portcullis and the calm waters beyond the glass. She quickly considered hiding, but that would be easily turned back on her were she found. Resolving to simply break and run when the door opened, she planned to surprise anyone on the other side. It was certainly too late to feign innocence.

Silence returned as she waited for another sound, but she heard none, remembering the heavy lock on the door. It might be the man went for the key. It might be he gave up.

She forced her thought still in the middle of its stream as she reminded herself Brown Courser had no key, but on the other side it would be the killer waiting for her to surface. Had he heard her? No, it was impossible. There was no man crouching like a wolf beyond, and now was her final chance. Filled with uncertainty, she stepped slowly across the room, breathing deeply and silently as the ship moved under her. She kept her footing and reached out, daring at last to touch the nob. Myren let the air out of her chest slowly and turned it, almost unable to feel the presence behind her. Arms seized her by the face and around the chest, dragging her backwards as she clawed at them, coiling and writhing in painful resistance. She felt her face forced to the floorboards as her entire body dragged across it. The moment she could raise herself, her body was rolled over the edge of the chest. The chest, she thought. What was in the chest? Had she checked it or had it been Brown Courser? The lid closed on her fingers as the hand came off her face. She refused to retract them. To do so meant death.

"Die."

The man's boot raised the open side of the chest, twisting her body inside. He closed the lid and flipped the latches, sealing her in with the dust and the darkness. Forcing herself not to struggle until his footsteps no longer sounded, deliberately walking out of the small room without bothering to close the door. Something the cocksure sellsword might have- she tried to move the lid and failing that, to get the box up on its side. It was possible the slats were weaker on the bottom, having a greater field to cover. Turning face proved to be impossible.

Accepting that she would be trapped for a time while forcing herself to remain calm, having been trained for far worse, Myren took a long breath and took hold of her coursing, fearful mind. She was hand to Denys Darklyn and mouth to the Swords. In the darkness, she could feel no connection to the ravenries and the outposts scattered across the Known World, in the simple chest of wood she could only feel the pressure of a twisted skeleton and a heart beating at far too great of a haste.

Like Escenane Waters, she was a body in a box.


	37. Straachan 6

STRAACHAN

The pace was grueling, but like as not only for his wounds. The master had plastered over much and more, as he had put it, but to move about was to sorely worsen them. He had traveled far in the days that had passed, but the God's eye was not within a man's sight. Torchlight could be seen in the distance on the plane. Perhaps the gods have smiled upon me.

Not far from where he walked, there was a smoldering wheelhouse in the snow. Whoever had assailed it had done so quickly and left no trace. He thought about what he had seen, crouching and peering through what remained of the glass. It occurred to him there were no bodies in the wreckage unless a man numbered among them the driver, whose corpse he had seen not far away, two arrows in his back. Much and more would remain undetermined. Paper inside would never have survived, and reading was not a skill of his.

One matter about the carriage or wheelhouse or whatever manner of ashen heap it was irked him, even as he walked away from it. He knew not the words with which the lettered men described it, but the ravens and the tree they surrounded- I have seen them before.

In his days on the continent, there was little and less he thought he knew as each passed. The dragonkings were a mystery to him, different men told different tales and yet so many were the same. Maegor the Cruel was murdered in his own throne, that much men seemed to know, yet the life before was muddled and varied. There were those who told of greatness, those who told of madness, but such was ever the way of his line, at least as Straachan understood it. When he took the throne, the king would be great or mad, no mealy-mouthed or mild man would ever sit the seat of still-sharp swords. In his own mind, the one complete clarity of their power was its source, and its vacancy left no doubts to theirs.

He saw a company of men taking the Kingsroad not long before passing Sow's Horn. They wore armor like a parade of fools in motley, a little chain here and there, and boiled leather on the backs of others. Camp followers were plentiful, like as not bought by Darklyn in advance. For all the hedge knights and brigands and hunters among them, the wounded man sighed. Am I for true any better?

The armored man had tried to protect those around him and raised his sword for no other reason, but any man with no home or family would have taken his quest. Looking over the faces of the men as he neared them, he saw some were unblemished, some pockmarked and notched, others covered in blemishes and boils, a few hidden like his. It was these eyes, simple black holes in a fullhelm that revealed the least of a man, but the faces betrayed little more in truth.

Into the last of them he walked, keeping pace and doing his best not to reveal his injuries. As the sun set in the distance, he knew at least they would not be walking much farther. The Kingsroad, like any other way, grew more dangerous at night, even in large groups. Straachan had little doubt that more than a few of the men would be gone in the morning, along with no small amount of gold. Few saw his entrance and none noted it, save an archer outriding.

In the crowd of men he found one advanced in age, his eyes deep set and dark, face unmoving. He carried no sword or swordbelt, but a dagger or a broken one sharpened anew hung from a loop at his waist beside a knife. The shield upon his back was a simple hardwood, notched from countless years of war, from the days and nights of fighting off brigands. The man was a hedge knight; that much he knew.

The wounded man told him a believable story about being out of work and trying to find something for which it was worth fighting. The older man wordlessly nodded.

"I once was a knight for some lesser lord, in name alone and no man would call me Ser. I tried to be a good man, but knew little and less of what that was until I grew old enough to tell the young. Some called me to protect those about me and in my failure I was fool enough to think myself less of a man. The path was rough and uneven, and I was fool enough to assume myself unfit to take it." Not knowing what to make of his words, Straachan could see only the ground ahead as they walked. It was a smooth road, two hundred years old, as men told it. I wonder where he thinks he's going now.

It saddened the wounded man that he received wisdom the old man believed too late to use in his own life. Perhaps he simply went to his death, hoping that a much younger man would make a truer choice, and live out the rest of his years with good deeds yet to be done and wrongs yet to right. But for all the knight's true and wise words, his heart was heavy in his chest and not for guilt alone. Already the death within began to take his strength, as though chains bound his beating heart, strangling the life from it.

The party established an encampment not far beyond Sow's Horn. It was a slow pace, one no dignified company would take, but necessary to account for the myriad not ahorse. Aside from the older men, he counted a fair few green boys at which he took no joy. Boys had less strength than they believed and no courage more than a youthful lack of fear.

Having naught else to do, he found a group of men starting a fire. Straachan could tell they were of a like sort to he, not a man of them spoke. They warmed themselves in the solitude of their own minds and the company of the cold and distant. A motley of younger men, sharpening swords and axes, and damned if he didn't see a war-scythe, rang out over their sonorous occupation to talk of meaningless things.

"I heard it was Marel Iren. The captain of the company himself told me that, he did." The wounded man watched in disbelief as he held the blade to the grindstone with his bare hand.

"Marel Iren? All the way from The Bay of Ice? The very same?"

"None other. Don't suppose he's come to shape us up like those wildlings-"

"The wildlings and their crab gods never stood a chance." I could say the same of you.

He had never heard of Iren, and cared little for what he did in the land or sea beyond the North. If he had truly come to assist Darklyn though, he needed not to wonder what manner of man he was.

Concerning himself with the survival of the green was a task impossible, and one that would keep him for all their lives. It was time he work on that which he set out to accomplish.

Finding a knight on a black stallion, he asked if he knew Denys Darklyn.

"Can't say so, my good man. For true, be not a man to worry yourself."

"I merely wish to know what sort of man he is." His habits, his trusted friends, his vices and weaknesses.

"Noreton Early is the man to know. He and his woman are Darklyn's replacements." Straachan knew not what he meant by the statement, but set off on the direction he was told. Working out the hows and whys can wait until after I die.

The man in silk or some material he recognized not spoke with an easy tone.

"For what purpose comes a knight to my side?"

"What know you of Denys Darklyn, lord? It is my wish to under him serve." His wife smirked at either his attempt at diction or his curious request as she walked into the lavish tent. He raised a hand to her and answered, voice suddenly changing.

"Did you know that not three moon's turns past I was a grunting boar like you?" I wager you don't know I have every intent to kill you the moment after I do the same to your master.

"No." Whether aught of the wounded man's rage showed up on his face, he knew not and was not concerned at all. Wearing a steel helmet was not without reward.

"My friend was like as not the same, perhaps though he could read." The armored man nodded. "He learned to play the game, the one where the crowns sacrifice men's lives and liberty for their own amusement. There are other reasons, of that I am sure, but those will be the only reasons once the realm is born again from chaos."

"And now you go to feasts and balls in his stead." Noreton's bitterness disappeared in a slight twinge of his lip. He gave his wife leave.

"Denys has not taken leave of his senses for having learned to play the game, darling knight." She began. "Men desire titles, and he gives them out, but oh, he makes them work for it, even the smallest honor. Even if he likes you, it really means naught to him. He confided by raven that he rather liked Catelyn Blackwood, but would scarce deign to investigate her death."

"I suppose hypocrisy is an effective policy." They know me not for a fool.

"For true, he sacrifices an honest fool every moon's turn, but it is this very foolery upon which the crowns have relied to keep men believing in their animals and finery. I do not remember dragons, and those who do never saw them."

Pieces of a plan were beginning to fit together in Straachan's mind. It was a simple one, and he knew not that he would live to see it through, muttering a silent prayer.

"I have seen many such men. Tell me, does our leader intend to name one of them with some fool's honors?" Gods, help me, the sword is all I know.

"Truly, you seem to know more than you do." Early responded, smiling with somewhat irked amusement. "There will be a melee in the shade of Harrenhal. The winner will receive the ineffably brilliant privilege of standing near him." The wounded man tried to chuckle convincingly.

At what felt like long last, he emerged, not knowing whether to practice or save his strength. He doubted many men had seen battle, but those would not be the ones he would face. Some were like as not sell-swords, by the mercy of the gods not well-paid sell-swords, but the blade was their trade and they fought well, as he knew from experience. Some were hired as assassins, others personal guards or mercenaries. Should he see any Essosi, he would not be surprised to meet the steel of a pitfighter.

Hired blades and brigands were skilled enough, but an arena fighter in his own home was a walking death born into the realm. Straachan had never been to the eastern continent, and he had no desire to do so. Astaron had studied all manners of books on the east, and from what he tell it was a sickening place. He carried no illusions about the Seven Kingdoms, but the sights and sounds and tastes could not mask the scent of slaves and disease and overfed men and broken women and blood, blood flowing from the great rivers and the cities and the ground itself.

The wounded man held his sword out in front of him, testing its weight as he thrust if forward, forcing his own heart to beat.

I shall swing until I die.


	38. Hronar- Thenn

HRONAR

An arrow thudded into the deer's neck and the animal hit the ground, sending the birds out into the sky. The boy walked forward to retrieve the body, not celebrating as was his father in his heart. He was as much of a hunter as his uncle, after whom he took his name.

"Hraen." The father began, voice even and eyes unblinking. "What will you do with your life?" Ever had he believed the nameless gods bestowed upon all men the choices to define their fates. It was time his son made such a choice.

"I merely wish to be a hunter and live in solitude." Hronar silently wondered if this was the result of his brother's influence. For all his abilities, the man preferred the constant chill of the howling winds and deathtouch of freezing rivers to the warmth of a woman, and he lived a life distant from other men, almost as though he wished to fade away into the wood as a beast.

It is best not to ask.

"You have grown to an age where you can and will think for yourself. To be true, you may have passed that at nine." He began again, retracting his own arrow, broken, from the shoulder of a wolf. It had been a successful hunt, late in the evening as it was, and what with the men in black wool and ringmail hunting Thenn to a waste.

"Would you that I think differently, father?" The man merely nodded, acknowledging the thoughts of his son. In truth, his daughter was changing as well, though he knew not why. The village was not far, but she did little other than trade furs for various things.

He found her fishing with her spear, another girl not far away. They had been talking for some time, and to his knowledge she was from the village, but he had never spoken to her. They spoke of a lost northman, far from the Wall and close to his enemies.

"A ranger?" He asked, incredulously.

"I cannot be sure, father, but from his steel he appeared to be from the South." There it is again. My daughter speaks of men beyond Thenn. He wondered how much she had heard from her trips to the village, whether she'd read or her friend had read aught about it. The girl concentrated on her fishing, not turning her eyes to the strange man.

"Well, it makes no matter. If he is truly lost, he may well become one of us."

"Truly, father." She uttered with a groan, not trying to conceal her displeasure with the idea. It entered his mind that his daughter was getting around that age and may have seen the man with aught apart from the usual scorn or distrust. Hronar tried to remember if he had spoken with her about the men of the Seven Kingdoms, how they had many times tried to control the free folk and the land, how the black crows hunted the same forest and scoured its floor for the same roots. Hraen certainly had not, or if he had, she must have received the exact opposite idea about them.

He set off deep into the trees, only half focused on the roots. It was not a difficult task and he knew how to find them. The red bearded man had other things on his mind.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a man walking along the shore in the distance, a red trail dragging behind him. A crow.

The free man followed him, crouching and gliding from tree to tree, a skill only honed with years of experience. Scaling the tree in a matter of heartbeats, he caught sight of the man from a lower branch. Seeing little more than a black cloak and the back of a head with a mange of black hair, he pressed on, leaping to the next tree, swinging from its branch, and grabbing onto a third. There was a long, straight bulge under the cloak at the man's side, and he knew well what it was.

Hronar had been in battle before. Not only had he seen swords of castle steel in the hands of the crows, but also in those from distant realms, coming in droves with the promise of unguarded gold. The free folk had no use for gold, but what they had was aught but unguarded. Few men knew about the merchant's men landing on the northeastern shore, but in Thenn and lands beyond, it was a common enough sight for a man to know what to do.

This man, however, was not an explorer or a ranger, despite the black. Upon clearer sight of his cloak, it was truly bear pelt, seeming several sewn together. By its movement he knew the cloaked man's pace to be swift and his step forceful, as though by some ineluctable force pulled along the frozen shoreline. The bearded man's ears twitched, hearing a faint sound behind him as he followed the swordsman. Allowing his target to get ahead, he slowed to find Hraen behind him.

"What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here, father?"

"Is your sister about?"

"No, I told her to stay."

"She listened to you? When you return, strike her for that."

"You do not mean to?" The father stared at his son, for the first time unsure of how to respond.

"This man is from the South- I think. How he got this far is a mystery to me- one I need to resolve. I need to follow him, and I do not know how long I should be gone." The boy nodded with an understanding he had not expected. It had been a sad day when he was six and ten and learned he could outshoot his father, and a sadder one still when he realized his father would hide naught from him, as already he had been with Hraen. He was happy to know that at least his own son seemed to accept it.

The young man was gone from his sight in heartbeats, and the father could swear he left more quietly than he had come.

Hronar decided it was best not to allow the man in pelts too great a distance before him.

Having followed the tireless swordsman long enough to feel as though he were dying, he at last saw the cloaked man mercifully stop. And from his cloak of pelts he drew a body, an old man, white from freezing and loss of blood and in a single missed beat of his own heart it became clear to the red bearded man that the trail of blood had been from where the hours of this dying man had been drawn out as had his body. The man in black revealed his sword and placed it on his chest as he lied down to sleep. Would that I had my arrows. This man believes he can sleep in front of me.

In truth, he could do nothing about it and there was little to be gained. He descended from the tree and without sound crept over to the older man, hoping to see him out of his pain or else help him pass in peace. When the free man reached him, he felt the faintest of hearts and put his arms under the delicate frame that had once been strong.

"An ironman… belongs… in the sea" the dying man choked as quietly as he could. "He is no longer… a man… under that masque." The father carried him with light step to the water's gradual edge, mindful of the cracks and the thickness of the ice. "No soul lives…within him." Hronar steadily lowered the man from Pyke to the water. "Please… he was once… a better man than I."

The sea interred the frozen body and the Drowned God reclaimed his servant. May you swim in peace with your mermaids, father. You have suffered much and deserve this rest.

Thinking on the man now asleep, his fingers touched his quiver, but that there were no arrows was not what held him from killing. Only a weak man would take this chance.

Instead, he deigned to take a closer look at the remorseless murderer, not afraid to meet his sleeping eyes any more or less than his waking, finding to his surprise he could not see them. The face was covered almost entirely by a round, black masque, a gold kraken encircling the dark hole for a single eye. He recognized the animal of the ironmen from the countless times he had seen their flag and concluded this was another. This man would kill a man under the same banner.

To him and Hraen, the concern of the South with its symbols was strange, but made enough sense given their kings and lords. What men did, they did for their masters, not the animals that decorated their shields. He had never believed in such blind service himself, but merely not sharing the belief was as far as he needed to go for his own right. The men of the Seven Kingdoms like as not saw it as loyalty.

The free man climbed once more into the tree. He had an early morning to anticipate.

The night was dark and his dreams confused him. Ever had he and his brother been able to see clearly in sleep, ever had he wondered if the gods gave to him or took away. The sky was as red and bright as the sun that foretold a storm, the sea a shining steel. A man in armor came from far afield of the black snow, crunching it to death beneath his metal heel. With sword and dagger he rose against his foe, bringing low many and more. Suns came and passed, and he shouted prayer to his god as he killed another score. Where song was once, fear came, as the sea bubbled and churned, cracking ice and man alive as he his painful lesson learned. The cries of terrors filled his ears, so shrill so sharp so shallow, the voices, the sounds of gods and kings and men, to damn and to hallow. All around him were his foes, living or dead or other, each child a beast, its teeth in points, tearing through its mother. The man in armor swung his steel, alive to fight until death. When into the waves went he, a masqued man gave his body second breath. The cursed soul drags him cursed alike along the ice, the black steel between wake and sleep, the weeping shore. Tonight the gods were cruel, the kings crueler and men no better, and will the ice weep its red tears once more.

Hronar woke on the ground, back in severe pain. He managed to stand, get his bearings, and put together that he had fallen out of the tree in the night. Grateful the man in black pelts did not kill him, he looked around for footprints beneath a fresh layer of snow. Finding nothing, he reasoned that he would have continued the same direction, perhaps not knowing his way at all. He turned, hearing a small voice.

"Hraen isn't far."

"Grinya?"

"I'm coming too." That's what I thought.

"Did you see-"

"The southron man? Please, father, wait until I've spoken to him before you get like this." He heard his son laugh in the distance. As the sound of it came over his ears, he decided he had needed it. The world is a fearful place for my children, but a fearful place without them, perhaps all the more. A cracked smile broke across his lips as his daughter handed him ten arrows she had brought with her.

"We have to see how he came here. Perhaps a ship." He began at last, seeing the boy come from the trees, a yearling over his shoulder. "If it's a ship, we burn it to cinders. If it's a company, we kill them. We are free folk and it is time both of you to learn what it means."

"Truly, father." The girl answered, not by the slightest mark sincere.

* * *

A/N- As I upload this, I'm changing the title to one I believe less cliché and more fitting. Optimistically, you're reading this nine years after the fact, and have absolutely no idea.


	39. The Ghozai 2

THE GHOZAI

The ropes held fast every man to his place on the deck. To Essos, they would go should the wind and rain allow them to stay on the ship. He laughed once more at the notion as he scaled the central mast, intent on repairing a knot for the sail.

In this way he had earned his name Monkey from the men of the vessel, calling him 'Ghozai' had grown distasteful in their ears and tongues. He liked it not, but could not remember his true name, and decided it made no matter. His father, the merchant, must have given some name for him, but if he saw the man again and he knew a name to which he believed his son must respond, he would surely say it.

The sailors spoke to him little and less, a moiety from Volantis and the rest from Yunkai and its surrounding lands. Tying the knots, he wondered if he had seen a Yunkish men in his travels with his father, but he failed to remember. He should have to ask when he would see him.

The more he thought of his father, the more he reminded him of Caht'oreb, wise and willing to share knowledge and wine. Had he had wine before?

The musings of the man from the distant island were broken by the Lorathi, shouting.

"A crate has gone over the edge and onto the wave! See what remains, what the Ghozai can save!" Nodding, he seized a rope tied to the lower mast and tied it about himself, leaping into the frigid sea after the crate. It floated for a time, but would soon fill with water. Swiftly prying the loose wood apart, he found dried meat taking on water. It was too great of a loss to lose.

Unable to think in the freezing waves, he shoved as much of it in his mouth as he could and gathered as much of the rest he could manage in his arms. At his waist he felt a heave and he knew Fa'shar meant to take him out of the sea and onto the deck. The worst would come as he would be dragged up its side. It was a small ship, but he was like to lose the most meat as the men pulled him up. Clinging tightly to what he could hold, they lifted him up slowly, the men that could be spared, at the least.

As they heaved him onto the deck, a man with a cow's head tattooed onto his face approached him, holding him still and trying to help the world stop shaking. The meat spilled across the deck and crewmen swiftly collected it and replaced it in a salted barrel, turning to go back to their posts when the captain raised a hand.

"Who did this?" There was no response. At long last Monkey managed to choke out that he'd leapt over himself. "Keep your wits about you, boy. You can't swim." A silent chill came over him and it was not from the water being dried by a small flame. He had swum all his life with his father as a trader. They lived on the sea.

He stood, shaking, his mind like to be addled by shock. His confusion would resolve itself later. Of that he could be sure.

In the distance, though, he saw little save a tossing sea.

The man with the tattoo watched him at a distance for much of the day as he worked. He knew him for a Volantene not because he had seen such men with such markings before, but from his travels with his father. They had seen many lands, and the Free Cities with their slaves, but he had dealt little with them. Slaves were a vile, unclean sort, always asking and demanding, and it was well that someone had found at last a use for them. When not around them, he occasionally wished they were content doing what they could, given that he knew of naught else, but when reminded of their nature, he was indifferent if they tested their backs against the ground or whatever purpose they served. It was their lot, as was his to sail, and sail he would.

Caht'oreb called him to the bow and bade him look through a spyglass, the like of which he had never seen.

"What do you see?" He trained the instrument on the horizon and examined its portents, eyes latching onto a distant mountain, perhaps many. As he stared in awe, the captain finished for him. "Ibben can be seen. We strive for Lorath and Volantis, but at the island we may resupply." The Ghozai returned his brass tool. "What would you have us do?"

"As a trader, my captain, before leaving, we supplied. Carried neither gold, did we, nor any material the corsairs could sell, we made sure." Monkey realized he was being tested, and test well he would.

"Very well. The ship is stocked with food enough for the men, but not the slaves. Some of them will die."

"Let die, than we can afford, no more, master of ship." He began, deciding on the complexity of the question. "Yet they pass like sand, the hours, the days, waste them not."

He walked away without responding to the suggestion.

Thinking on it as he returned to his work, he decided the captain was able to see his response for the infirm vagary that it was. He had ever been one to avoid lasting ties with men, and this was no different. That the man could see through him meant he was like to not be worth the trouble. It was unwise to avoid too many men, but to bother with one so tiresome would keep him from greater things.

Fa'shar on the other end of the ship, cried out in pain. He looked over at the voice and saw the man being lashed. What sort of man had he become?

Though his own words to the Lorathi were a mystery to him, he remembered him as a clever man, with not the nature to incite undue concern over himself, or if he did cause trouble, to easily get away with it. He asked the man with the tattoo, who loomed over the whipped what the crime was.

"This man has beaten the slaves unduly. It is impossible sell damaged goods." No denial came from the screaming mouth, only fear could be seen in the eyes. "The captain is displeased with any damage to the supply. See that you learn."

His suggestion was not required.

As he thought about the change in his former partner, he thanked the gods, deciding the Ghozai kept with the Gods of Ghis, that he had not changed.

A Mereenese woman who checked the knots and the sails had a wiry, able frame and Monkey on most days found it wise to avoid her. He rather misliked her, not at all like the women of his island as he remembered them. The men of the vessel thought of her not as a woman, of course, had they, she would have had not a place with her constitution, but her place was no better than naught. No man spoke to her unless she spoke to him, and he understood she hated them for it.

"Boy!" she shouted to his back as he climbed atop the mainmast, seeing the knot he tied earlier undone and hastening to correct his mistake. "I can get the knot. The slaves caused a hull breach. Mend it."

There was no sense in dissent.

He went swiftly belowdecks, searching for the leak, finding the slaves arguing about whether to fix it or make it worse, some preferring to accept their ends and some to live a little longer, if as slaves. Ignoring them as he searched through a chest with tools for making repairs to the vessel, there was little in the way of spare planks, as he had expected, but were he to properly replace the wood, he would need the ship out of the sea. A simple repair would do until they docked at the port of Ibben.

The trick was making sure no man caused another such disruption.

From what they had to say, it appeared a large, bearded slave at the word of an elder, a grey haired woman, had silently worked at prying a plank from its place with naught save a nail for half a moon.

"Have no skill in deception, slaves, do I, truly." He began, pacing back and forth before them as those eager to repair the damage set about it, the bearded man looking less than content and the beast girl staring at him from the back. "Before you, then, all of you, I shall lay it plain. The satisfaction of killing us, or what else you want, by whatever means, never will you have."

"You can't keep repairing the damage. You can't kill us."

"Among those, and you will see, but one true, which. Should become true, the first, the second, falsehood will become." Deciding his words would be most effective should he leave them there, he left them and the prisoners. As he had learned over time on the ship, there was an investor in Slaver's Bay looking for 'hale wildlings' after news of Hardhome reached Essos and would pay any price for a vessel to bring them by whatever means necessary. The means chosen by Caht'oreb were simple.

He offered a trip to Essos without fare.

The Ghozai decided the idea was mostly true, but wondered what manner of slaves a race that called themselves 'free folk' would make. He breathed an attempt at laughter as he went above. It was not his business what the owners would be able to do with their property.

The worst of the storms had passed and Monkey quickly found other work, adjusting the sails under orders from the helm and fishing with the marked man once more watching him from afar. He decided Fa'shar would have been long released from the lashing and soon his eyes caught the man cleaning the hull's edge, or what of it he could reach. Like as not, his back would still be bleeding.

The fish were fighting and winning more than was his liking, but he was an experienced fisherman, from his time as a trader and the cow-head-tattoo-man would have naught but to see it. The trick was to deceive the biters, allowing them to believe the nets were merely part of the ship. He retrieved the green filth from the lower edge of the hull, near the nets, and gave each a coat. The sun was low in the sky by the end of his work, and he was glad for it. The beasts of the sea were fools by day, but still more so in the dark. Already he heard them splashing about in the nets and decided whoever had the task of pulling them in would have a task indeed.

At long last, he climbed upon the deck once more and headed for the stair, knees unsteady beneath him. The Ghozai immersed himself in darkness as he went belowdecks to sleep, finding at last the black pelt of some animal. The Lorathi slept opposite him, bloodied wounds uncovered, the captives in their chains staring at both of them, but none with a more piercing gaze than the beast girl with no name. He stared back as if expecting her to retreat, but as the darkness and his own weariness overtook him and her eyes blurred, he saw pain in the hatred, pain he remembered, pain he… the blackness filled his sight and it was no more.

Alone he stared to the top of a dark and cold pyramid, and another like he approached. His features were the same, but the bearing and expression had changed. Like an inhuman beast, the boy climbed down on his hands and knees, approaching rapidly-

Monkey woke up to find he had fallen from the wood beam where he slept with the black pelt. He looked quickly over to Fa'shar.

"Perhaps not so much, has changed, the Lorathi, if aught." He whispered into the night.


	40. Myren 9

MYREN

In the dark, the world was a confusing place.

She saw herself doing the same things over and over again. Occasionally she would see herself pouring over papers, but most of the flashes that came and went like lightning were of her panicked struggling in the darkness. It was always out of order, and the more she tried to put it right, the more she forgot. She saw herself forcing a thin blade through the slats in the wood, she saw herself trying to get the chest up on its side, she saw the blade slipping and cutting her hand, she saw herself all at once as a girl again, walking a long road in the winter, alone in all the realm.

If there are no gods, who tortures me so with these memories?

It had been a fair winter to her memory, but no night or day had been so cold. The Freys had sent her to die, gathering roots they knew not to be, a punishment for refusing the lord his rights. They will be sated if I come back in the morning, roots or no. They only mean to force me to learn. She struggled in the darkness again, thrashing about as the wooden chest rocked back to the floor with a clunking sound, hearing the laughter of Lady Frey or her daughter or sister or both in her mind. Stumbling in the snow, she forced herself to rise again. They will be pleased, they will be pleased to know I lived. I am no good to them dead.

Mother have mercy.

She saw herself flinging her body against the walls, where was the blade, was this before? She wanted to scream as the arms forced her into the darkness of the chest, but the stifling hand held her jaw in place and for a moment she lied there, unsure of what if aught to do, in the box in the snow and the dead of winter. A man on horseback shouted at her, thinking her alive to respond, but the girl was dead and what replaced her should never have been picked from the frozen earth.

She pulled the blade from between the planks and in came the cold, dead air that she welcomed into her body, having toiled coiled boiled in the chest and felt warm once more, in a cottage by a fire. Her small hands curled into fists as feeling returned to them. The Freys and those like them would die, they would die, die, die, die like all men must. With a fist held behind her back by a man's weight, she was on the floor, her prison before her, the very death of her, that which she would see burn.

Myren remembered her name as she threw herself out of bed, stumbling up out of the dream as though her entire body were coiled and ready to leap. She landed in a heap and arms in mail and steel lifted her again and she backed away as soon as her feet were under her.

"You're awake." Cocksure knave stating that which- "Are you alright? I've been here for at least a day."

"Who did this?"

"We can't be sure. Might be, the captain did it." She allowed her expression to change, revealing the confusion she felt. "I know, it seems impossible. But he had the key. I don't know he gave it to anyone else. Can't let him get suspicious asking." They let the words hang there for a moment as her eyes flitted about the helmsman's room, looking for something she lost. "That was good thinking, making an opening with the dagger. Didn't know you had one." The dagger, that was it. Brown Courser produced a dark blade with a wavy silver pattern and she recognized it, taking it. "You'll need to keep that on you now that you're awake. If a man wanted you dead the first time, he'll really want it now."

"Why did I not have it in sleep?" The arrogance you display taking it from me-

"I was here watching you. Morozo has been trying to look around for us."

"Morozo."

"When I left I told you I was off to look for him. I couldn't find him at first, would that I'd given up and come back sooner, this makes no matter, but he was talking to the captain."

"What was he able to discover?"

"We all know who had the key, but he doesn't believe it. Wouldn't have killed Bogothi in a hundred score winters. Captain sleeps as well as any sailor, damn thing could have been stolen and molded and he'd never know about it."

"Does he have a theory on who-"

"Do you remember the man I sent in ahead of us? Told me he was from Mantarys, darker fellow?" She waved it away.

"It makes no matter. You suspect he kept the key longer than he should have."

"I also haven't seen him."

"Have you looked everywhere?" He shook his head.

"If half the passengers know I seek a man out, he'll know long before I find him." They stepped out of the room together, the damnable chest sitting open as though inviting her back. Myren glared at it as she closed the door.

It was a large ship, but it was possible to search without raising suspicion. Delegating the sellsword to the lower, darker, quarters where he was less likely to be welcome, she looked about on the upper decks, dagger once more in her sleeve. Passing him from time to time, he recounted in pieces how he found her.

As she walked through the passenger hall, the story flowed forth in her mind.

"It had been too long and I figured it was odd I hadn't seen him or you, seeing how I searched up and down the ship." Reasonable. "I knocked, no answer, and I took the lock off with the pommel of my sword." Cocksure. "I didn't realize you were in there. Last place I'd expect, really." Reasonable, if begrudgingly. "Captain came running in and I told him I didn't care how many men on this ship were loyal to him." Cocksure, not at all reasonable. "We were able to figure out how you survived and helped you to recover."

Stumbling across a few wine bottles in a dark corner of the passenger's quarters, her mind changed its course. They were not inscribed in any way, and it smelled of a green of poor vintage from what she knew of wine. Brown Courser and Denys Darklyn drank enough, but for the former it was any manner of drink he could acquire and the latter, Myrish purple oft as not.

It makes no matter. It is worth reporting.

Seeking the sellsword, the stream of thoughts began again. If the helmsman was a drunk, why hide it? Would it not be best to look like self-slaughter, or some misstep too close to the edge? It is already impossible for it to be true, men who fall from ships do not come back to force me into chests. Of course, the bottles may be here for another cause, some thief breaking in, possibly never belonging to the dead man…

She was dammed by the sight of the swordsman, walking with another with a sword at his hip. The blade was long and thin in a scabbard of dark leather, the man much the same. He carried himself with an air, but not one to mislike.

"Myren. We've found something."

"As have I. The passenger quarters hid an amount of wine bottles."

"That may be, but we believe what we have found-"

"-have not…found."

"-yes, haven't found is more important." He quickly led her over to the starboard, where a small boat was clearly missing.

"I assume you have only just noticed this?"

"Yes. It was here yesterday."

"No man… save a killer… flees to open sea."

"The man from Mantarys was planning to kill you when he had the chance, but he never had one. Might be someone would have seen him, might be the ship was passing that uncharted island and he feared you would live. He escaped when the captain let slip you were discovered."

"Whether that is true or no, he would have no cause to be so cautious about his killing were he ready to face the waves. Further, he was a small man. He could not have restrained me." The two men's eyes slowly slid toward each other and then back to her.

"Death on the water is a slow death, but less certain than the edge of my sword or that of Morozo." I suppose he would choose that if he were as cocksure as you.

"I am but for nine in ten parts certain I was meant to die. It would have been just as easy to kill me then, if not easier, and it is possible I was meant to live and suspect the captain." This they gave due thought.

"We know too little." Brown Courser decided at last. "I was never the manner of man for this work, but now it makes no matter. It's my lot to make sure you don't die." The sellsword walked deliberately to the helm, eyes locked on the captain. Myren hastened to keep up, annoyed with the lack of proper flow of logic.

"What is it?" She asked, attempting to remain well-mannered before the eyes of the master of the ship. He turned back at her briefly.

"When we found her in a box, you didn't know about it." The man looked as flustered as ever. "I'm going to tell you a little secret. When I left her in there, I never locked the door. I asked you if you had given anyone the key because I suspected you from the start." The cascade came tumbling, and all was aright. He was responsible for her life.

"Please… I do not know…" The swordsman turned away.

"He is innocent. I can tell." Cocksure.

Myren looked out over the deck and saw more than a few people staring. She approached him and whispered a swift, deliberate message.

"I outrank you. Go to the helmsman's quarters." It was not for her to throw her weight around when in truth she was light, but matters were serious. They arrived in what she wished to be heartbeats.

"What is the mat-"

"Perhaps you were not informed of this, but there is a manner in which the Swords resolve mysteries and discover truth. Lying to me, revealing what we know to all men with ears, and basing your conclusion on suspicion are not involved in this manner. It is your duty to see me back alive, and unless you get both of us killed, I will return to the right of Denys Darklyn and tell him exactly how I believe you performed." She denied herself the satisfaction of a long breath.

"The captain is no killer. He would never have shown us this room. His slowness of speech is not fear, but inability. Most of the crew speak some Ghiscari tongue, might be farther east." He stood resolute, refusing to even blink. Cocksure no longer describes you.

She pushed past him and caught sight of the shipmaster's room. He will not return until evening… perhaps there is time.

There was no lock on the door. There had never been a lock on the door. Opening it as soon as Brown Courser walked out, like to calm the passengers should the need arise, a faint air met her face and she decided the window must be open. She crept in silently, satisfied at the idea of going behind his back for the better of the resolution.

At last looking around the room, she forced herself not to scream as she came face to face with the body of the dark man from Mantarys. His wrists were tied to a hanging lantern, his body cut and mangled in every way.

Clear vindication had never been so terrifying.


	41. Straachan 7

STRAACHAN

Alone he rose from his place next to the fire in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. The shadows he cast as he walked were long and dark, but not so deep as the holes in his helm. Ahead of him kneeled a young woman before a fire, her hair flaxen and her eyes without the shine of life, but a fine maid in other matters. She stood as he approached and touched a hand to the side of his fullhelm warm and aglow with orange light.

"Mother have mercy." Her face fell. "I can see it in your movements." All at once he saw it, a light in her eyes. "You die."

"Slowly." His word and voice carried little and less of the comfort he had hoped they would. Holding him as though he meant to turn, she loosened the leather straps without but looking and removed the helm slowly. He made no attempt to stay her hand. At her gasp he could guess what she saw, only a day before he had looked at his body in the unfrozen center of the lake and on his arms and breast seen his veins a pale green, distinct from the azure of a frozen corpse, but a corpse none the less. The discoloration was worst close to his heart.

"I hope it never takes your eyes, Ser."

"I'll need them until I die." Desirous of no mortal ties as he prepared for death, the armored man excused himself and made his way out of the hall. It was clear how the woman recognized him. The day before, there had been a fire in the stables. Harrenhal's current garrison was lax in its precautions, they felt no tie to the keep or its walls, whatever oath they swore over them.

The day was a cold one and the horse that nearly killed him as he cut the leather tie on the door handles was eager to lie in the snow. Others were not so fortunate. A black mare was trapped under iron bars as she burned, two sisters, like as not, caught by harnesses round the throat. Managing to free one as the other died, he remembered quickly turning and seeing an older mare make a dead run out the door, coat aflame. A stallion stuck his neck through a weakened stall and was unable to retract as the wood burned around him, painfully beheading him. He threw himself onto the back of the last unharmed beast, a common nag, and set off after the burning one. She raced far ahead and with great fear he saw where she went. In some fit of madness, the lake was water and the lake would do. Spurring on his own mount, he could not catch her as she leapt into the deathly cold God's Eye.

He shouted in anger and released his hold on the nag, allowing it at last to lie in the snow. Grabbing the bridle of the struggling beast, he dragged her out, skin blackened and flames replaced by water.

Gods, forgive us.

He found himself not far from the tent of Noreton Early. The false lord was a small man who chose to ridicule rather than answer questions, but Straachan prevented his judgment from going farther than that. He knew naught about the man, merely having decided that if he took ill by the wounded man's thoughts of him, he should have given a different impression. Of course, that could just be the man's act. It might be that not only I wear a helm all the time.

The man in fine linens wore a helm if so that he never had a desire to wear. He wore one of lies, and his masque was naught save an ever pleasant face. His wife, by all looks, was no different. Perhaps she was well-meant, perhaps she was cruel, he would never know and he never intended to find out. Such women, such men if he spoke the truth, failed to interest him with their mysteries. What is the damnable point of mysteries if I can't actually solve it because you don't wish it?

He walked silently into the tent, not happy he needed them.

The armored man found Early's wife alone, turned away and tending to the fire. Approaching cautiously, he quickly checked if aught a man else were about. Seeing naught he stood, cleared his sword with a click and extinguished the lantern with two fingers as she spun around.

The older man walked into the tent as planned. Straachan asked him shortly after failing to save the horse from freezing if he had ever desired to make a change in things, to protect the good people of the Seven Kingdoms. The Swords Sable had been lying to them, Denys Darklyn cared less than the crowns he so hated, he burned Assana alive and left Sasera to die. Whatever claims he made, he was no fit leader of any realm.

"What are your plans?" The other man said with what force he could conjure. "What do the Swords mean for the people of Westeros?" The wounded watched in the dark as she scanned about, seeking a path of escape. He drew his own sword and held it out to his side, allowing the moonlight to reveal the blade but naught of him.

"How many are you?"

"Too many. What does Denys Darklyn mean to do?"

"You can do naught to-"

"I have more than enough time for you." There was a pause and the older man stepped forward, his deep-set eyes black circles in the half moon's weak light.

"The Swords would mobilize on King's Landing while it is weak. The Valyrian has not returned with the dragon, but the quest is not failed yet. To free the known world of its crowned heads, the champion will fly the dragon across the sea with Lightning, the sword sent to us from the ruins of Doomed Valyria." She inhaled deeply, eyes still flitting about.

"Who is the champion?"

"The champion will be determined at Harrenhal."

"And how is he to ride a dragon?"

"The Valyrian possessed an ancient working that could sow his blood into a living being, no matter how large. If he does not live, he has passed it along to another." It might be that she hopes a man will spring on him and kills him before he may reveal what he has learned. Hearing footsteps outside the tent, Straachan sheathed his sword and went out another way.

"Did you know there were things he told me I couldn't do to you?" The man said as he crept around to the front of the tent.

"By the Seven, all I know I-"

"Now he isn't here." Looking up, Straachan saw Noreton Early approaching. Damn it all. Does he deserve this? Does he know what manner of man Darklyn is? Does his wife-

He held his hand aloft and a finger before his fullhelm. The false lord crept up to him.

"What is it?"

"I hear voices. I can't tell the man for friend or foe."

"Why are you here?" Why does it matter? I'm not the one whose wife is in danger.

"I was coming about news of the leader." The man in linens and lies reached for the flap and he in boiled leather and mail stayed his hand.

"We know not how many they are. I say scare them off." He nodded and threw open the tent, shouting as the armored man forcefully shoved his partner, whose flight was swift for his age.

"We shall see you after." Without looking at her, he supposed the reason and left, running back to the heart of the encampment.

This hour one day earlier, he looked over the body of a frozen grey stallion when an archer came from behind and bade him name himself.

"What is the reason-"

"You are a man I have not seen, and a suspicious one. Name yourself with a name I have not heard, and you will pay with blood." He silently cleared his sword.

"Astaron."

"Fie."

The man carried a dark, well-nocked estoc at his hip in neglect.

"May I see your blade?" Straachan found him fletching an arrow.

"No. By the old gods…"

"A man has never seen a true estoc. He told me they were not."

"Did I see you a day ago?"

"Here, have mine, so you know I should give it again." He quickly drew his sword and the archer scanned it, like as not for blood. Drawing his own blade, he slowly put it aside to pick up the other.

"Should you not return for-"

"You would keep it, for true." He took up the dark weapon and quickly sheathed it as he turned, mindful that the scabbard was overlarge for it. I should keep it sheathed until I need it.

He returned to the tent to find Noreton outside.

"She is most days of sterner stuff, but-"

"No man can fault her. How fares she? Has she wounds?"

"Most is in her mind."

"The gods made women to be strong through the worst of times. Pray they never come." The false lord nodded grimly as he held the tent's flap aloft. The gods have made you my enemy as well. Would that I had a day after killing Denys to make amends with these.

"My lady. Your lord husband tells me you are in need. Know that I shall be on guard. As a sellsword, men hired me as an expendable scout." She did not respond but he needed not her approval. Revealing the dark, thin edge of the estoc as if to show readiness to draw and waited for a nod from one or both before stepping outside.

The dawn was nigh when at last the concern of the voice inside shifted from his wife to what she might have revealed. The armored man inclined, picking up the greater part of her words.

"I revealed only that which will not aid him. No man will believe there will be a siege on King's Landing. Even so, we should have anticipated spies."

"Spies? How many were they?"

"I saw but two. One man left when he learned what he needed."

"If there were spies from the kings, there would be either one or certainly more than two."

"Each crown would send his own man. We know not how many there are apart from what I saw. They had sparse arms, for true." She spoke with concern. Straachan saw the reason in it. Men sent from far lands with deep pockets were sent alone because they were the best. Their arms, drawn only in extreme cases, carried no risk of revealing themselves for aught a man apart from the claim. Their weapons would exceed their armor, if they wore it, and half again so if they did not. A hidden weapon was the one form of security a man had surrounded by enemies.

"Then, as unlike as it is, they may simply have been alone."

"Just so? Two men, perhaps more- or truly just two- fighting for a realm against them?" No. I fight against Darklyn. Whatever his plans are, he is a wicked man with a wicked end.

"It might be. They've another two against them, though. And these two are not going to cease until both are dead, or all your enemies are. I need their likeness."

"The first was old. I would know him again in a beat of a mouse's heart. There are like to be but a paucity of old men in the encampment. He carried a sharpened broken sword."

"The other?"

"I saw naught save his sword in the moonlight. It is like he polished it for that purpose."

"Naught else?"

"For but a moment…" The wounded forced himself not to turn sharply. They would hear him. "He sheathed and I saw a glimpse of his eye as the blade's light found it. Were it not that I wish him dead, I would fear for him. The blood in his body is black."


	42. Hronar 2

HRONAR

Silence greeted him in the early morning. The man in black pelts had not seen him, though, and he thanked his nameless gods well enough. Alone, he would have had less concern. If the man saw him, he would see little more than one man hunting for his own food, naught with which he should be concerned, a second time, Hronar would still look much the same as any other free man, perhaps the third as well, but even the fourth sight of him alone worried him more than a single sight of his son or daughter. The boy was a hunter and could conceal himself well enough from an animal, but beasts could see little beyond a certain distance, and though the masque would not turn toward him, he would do better to hide as his sister, trained with the spear rather than bow. In Grinya he had not seen the same hunter and instructed her in the defense of self and Thenn.

But will she rise for the land?

He had not given it clear thought, he had not allowed himself to doubt the freedom that beat in her heart as it did in every man and woman. His son would soon rise for the land, but it would not take long for a hunter to decide that land was land and he would not raise a bow for its men.

The man in black moved once more and they were after him. Hraen led, dashing from trunk to trunk without sound while his sister followed her father in the branches.

He had neither erred nor faltered in his pace, like a southerly wind he froze the shore as he stepped on it, never once breaking the ice shelf, thinner in some places than others, but unlike the wind he made no sound, no breath, not even the beat of a heart his brother once boasted could be heard in a moving beast, if only by him.

Ahead he caught sight of a small company of men, no spearwives could be seen were they about. He did not know if the man he followed saw them, he designed not to turn his head and the masque, the free man knew, had but one hole for sight.

"We ask you go no farther." The mysterious man gave no indication of obedience.

"What is your purpose?" Any man can pass with what purpose he likes. What is yours?

"We are armed. We are free men." Looking closely, Hronar saw movement under the bear pelts. Gods, he's drawing on five.

The slashing ended as quickly as it began. Only the point of the giant blade was visible as its owner raised it from beneath the long, black cloak and only the point was bloodied when five men lied dead, not a drop had turned the snow pink, not a trickle visible on the bodies. Truly, they had not expected it, but the skill belonged to a man who lived without failure or fear of it, whose unerring skill had killed bears with but a sword.

The free man forgave the slain for not having seen castle steel, or a weapon so grave. North of the Wall, a man might carry bow or spear, but never a greatsword. The rangers never bore such a weapon either, preferring the sword and shield or the bow if at a range. It was for them to fight only when necessary, and they carried no heavy arms against the free folk.

For his part, the spear and arrows had been sufficient to kill what few men the gods gave him, and it seemed his son and daughter agreed, in part. Noticing Hraen darting out from the trees onto the ice, where the snow was rife with chunks of ice to hide his step, his father moved in closer. He's on to something.

The boy's bow was on his back, no intent to kill hid in his heart, hands and feet on the chunks of ice that made no sound, he crept after the man as though to hear the beat of a heart, if a heart there were. At once the warrior whirled about, the point of steel slashing through the air, singing with no sound. Grinya's spear missed the man in pelts as stepped aside, but he stepped into an arrow. The hunter was bleeding from the swordstroke, but had managed to throw himself aside and rose with a drawn bow as his father loosed again, sticking into the neck. He leapt from the tree and sprinted to the man's back with a spearhead from a pouch at his side, but once more his enemy whirled about, now with a boy against his chest and a steel dagger to his eye.

For the first time as the free man stood there he beheld the in the man's armor, metal plates scorched black in fire. He saw its holes, where swords or worse had pierced and the ice freezing together the hair in his black mange of hair and beard.

"Release my son. You have an arrow in you." Hronar spoke simply, not knowing what manner of tongue the man knew. "You look like a man with will- and a purpose." The wind picked up around them, rippling through his own hair and clothes without but touching the other man. "You can never see it if you die here." His words might have hung in the air had it been still. The masque turned twice to look through the trees and he doubted his daughter could be seen.

The dagger returned to its sheath and the hand that held the boy moved to the hilt of the greatsword, gripping it as the man turned and began to walk, tearing out the arrow within a few steps. The succeeding acts of the man in pelts were a mystery to him as he turned to his son, looking about him for wounds and finding only a calm anger in the eyes.

"I was heard."

"You're my son."

"I was dead."

"Should I have shot him? Do you want it so badly that-" His mind showed him things he would die to protect, the land, its sons, its daughters "Do you want him dead so badly you'd have me kill you over it?" He kept his voice level, but allowed his anger forth, there being nothing he could do to halt it.

"I live or die by mine own hand." He took his leave without ceremony and his father knew better than to chase him. The boy was quick on his feet and meant to fade into the wilds, and become one with the beasts he would. Hraen believed he needed no other man and perhaps truly, but the cost of proving this would be solitude or perfection, and Hronar had no wish to condemn him to either.

The man with the greatsword was far in the distance when Grinya approached him.

"Why does he have to be so stupid, father?"

"We do not yet know how long he will be gone. If he returns, he will be less stupid than he started."

"Well, I think it's stupid."

"There was a time when your mother and I were fighting a ranger, you know." He began as they walked down the shore, no longer bettered by concealing themselves. "I hadn't known her but a week, and I hadn't seen her fight." The man ahead gave no sign he noticed them, and he would be surprised if he noticed anything behind him. "He almost killed her with his horse's kicking legs, and I dropped my bow. I forced my weight into the beast's side. It coiled in the air and fell on its side, the man's leg was broken, I think. Your mother picked herself up and stabbed him through his armor with her spear before she permitted me to take her back." Grinya looked off into the distance as he talked. Gods, this is important.

He took her shoulder lightly and turned her back. "She told me I should not treat her like that. I almost quit her sight right then."

"What are you saying, father?" she asked, suspicious.

"I do not agree with your brother. I understand him. He is not stupid, remember that." The girl seemed less than satisfied with his story and said nothing. He knew his son behaved without reason, but he had seen it in his mother and loved her for it. He remembered her truly spirited struggle as he dragged her from her father's home, laughing, unable to keep from laughing the whole way until at last in a small, warm cave he released her legs and she sat with them open. It seemed but a fist of moon's turns before his daughter was born, and not long before her brother followed. They had come from the same womb, and he would not have them hating each other.

He looked ahead to the man in black, swiftly becoming a speck in the distance.

"When will he come back?" Ask your mother.

"We'll see." He set off to the south once more, catching sight of a few drops of blood on the ground, where he guessed the wielder of the greatsword had bandaged his wound. He is no monster, truly. He spared my son.

He thought back to the old man whom he had laid to rest in the icy deep, whose blood lined the frozen shore and began to wonder if he had committed some evil unpardonable, but perished the thought. The man's words were not bitter, if anything, they were kind and his serenity was almost unchanged by lowering him into the waves to rest in peace. Perhaps they were simply enemies, two men who could not live alive on the same land.

The girl was ahead of him when he looked up. She had not retrieved her spear, it went into the water, and was gone. She seemed not to miss it. A brave girl, to face the world without a weapon.

They were closing the distance slowly with the man in pelts and armor. The free man looked out over the sea, seeing no ships on the water he felt a strange sensation of peace. Ships never brought good tidings. Turning his eyes back to the shore ahead, he saw a spearwife fishing, allowing the man in the masque to pass without object.

"Wouldn't be from the first from the Seven Kingdoms I've seen out here. Makes me think. Might be, the Starks have decided the land is theirs."

"You saw someone?"

"A maid, she said. Tried to kill me, you know. I let her off with a warning, seeing she was missing a leg and all." Hronar wondered what terrible transpiring could have forced a crippled maid so far from a land she knew, and how the woman could tell her from the South. He asked not. She spoke little enough to sound content to close the matter, and nothing would persuade him to do anything else.

The unknown woman seemed a liar, not explaining why the girl had tried to kill her, and like as not she had a reason. But knowing not, he decided to conclude no more of her, lest he become overmuch like his brother, thinking all men south of the Wall to be kneelers. Perhaps they are, Hraen, but you have heard the words of three before you killed them and not one begged for mercy.

As the clouds moved and the sky grew darker yet, his thoughts turned to his brother, that he had not seen the red bearded man in many turns of the moon. It occurred to him that he had long ceased to exist in the mind of any man but his. He knew him not to make friends save a hunting partner who doubtless would fail him or leave before long.

If I die, he truly will fade into the wood and at last become a beast among his own.


	43. The Ghozai 3

THE GHOZAI

It was midday and the captain had ordered the sails raised, but to no avail. The winds had dropped and arriving at the port of Lorath was a matter of patience rather than swiftness. The sea gods to whom the sailors prayed had been good for the past several days and the wind had carried them far. No longer could he see Westeros with the setting of the sun.

He remembered his father teaching him that it was never wise to stray too great a distance from land, but this was a robust ship with an able captain. He had made the decision to incline for the island alone, but only after much reading. Braavos was a heavily used port and if tax made matter, it would be greater under the colossus. The crew, not experienced slavers, but versed in contraband had been against porting at the city of thin swords and whores. Eyes would be on them and there was no good way of passing the load through the city, and Lorath was much closer to the market.

What was more, men had whispered of a den of thieves in the Forests of Qohor. The man with the marking of the cow's head had claimed to have been there himself.

"My master sent me for a girl to warm his bed. He was no wealthy man to buy one in the normal sense. Ugly as a tapir, too, if you'll believe it." The man spoke with the same mariner's voice as the rest, like as not learning the Common Tongue from them.

"How did you find it?" The rower who asked contained his laughter. It had sounded much a tale a sail boy would tell, sailor's talk and naught more.

"A man must learn the signs. Many a slave had tread the path before I saw it." Almost at once the Ghozai had grown in mistrust for the man. "They were on the trees. Which path to take, which ones to avoid, which ones had been tread to lead fools in circles."

"Oh, and you found a harem of beautiful slaves." Another rower laughed.

"They had a Naathi woman and a handful of ugly Ghiscari. I considered buying three with my master's gold, but I found it more pleasing to stick a beauty with him than him with his equals." Monkey had expected a slave's behavior to be no less foolish and lax. Checking briefly to see if the captain could see them, he was pleased to find he had not come that night.

Recalling that time as he tied a knot, he decided he could not fully hate the slave with the tattoo. He retained a taste in women to know not to have one for the ones from Ghis. Ghiscari were a groveling, short race of men with fool's dress and disgusting hair. Their wine was for the poorest of the beggars of the dirtiest cities and women for the Ghiscari men, poorer still. Both soured in three days, if that.

He decided he was fortunate to have never encountered anyone from Ghis, old or new.

Belowdecks he heard a disturbance, and swiftly set himself against it. Since the last attempt to kill themselves and everyone else, the slaves had been as well-behaved as he expected, killing each other only twice. The Lorathi had shrugged on both deaths. As long as thirty or forty lived, the voyage was a successful one, and they would be well rewarded.

He sighed as he broke two of them apart. They were not fighting, which was well enough, but slaves with child rarely sold and were a gamble at best. If masters wanted to produce children between the bound, they were perfectly able. He knew of few men with slaves, but imagined they would have both the male and female sort, better to suit their natural roles.

He suffered no disagreement from the captives when at last the two were apart, the ones who had been shouting for help he ordered to quiet the ones now shouting at him. They had begun to heed his word more quickly than that of Fa'shar or other men, a moiety agreed he did not abuse them, but he failed to see how it was possible to do so.

A female, lying in the filth, appeared to have broken ribs. She was young enough and no cripple and would like as not fetch enough from the Elyrian buyer. Slaver's Bay was ever lusting for exotic stock, and though such disturbed cravings disgusted him, it would not be said that he allowed the goods to spoil, his father had long ago assured him that was the death of any merchant.

He called for a man to see to her, whether or not he came was no object of his.

At last his eyes went over them to see about any other trouble. The beast failed to catch his eye, her gaze bothered him no more, not for some time. The Ghozai cared little about the reason, peace from loathsome staring was no blessing to question.

As he headed into the light once more, he decided feeding time was much more favorable than settling disruption. Then, he had a club in one hand and salted meat in the other. Feeding came once every few days, and fights were known to start were it not conducted in the proper manner. He had prevented perhaps nine in ten by being more forgiving than they deserved. On the deck he noticed himself for the first time fully intent on his work, without the feeling of eyes on his back. The marked man had likewise ceased his staring, perhaps fully and finally content that he saw no man to suspect, a simple trader from the Isle of Cedars.

He spied a broken oar down with the rowers and set about it as he wondered how it met its fate, knowing better than to ask the men, as an answer was as good as a confession. The tool would yet serve its purpose, broken though it may be. The other bit of the shaft was closer to the bow, where it might have been broken, but it would do little to assign blame. He took an ads from the tool chest and narrowed a hole above the break and tapped a spike of wood through with an old mallet, splitting the lower shaft. He shaved the loose splinters with the ads and bound the break with leather cord. Monkey left the tool where he was sure a rower would find it.

He knew enough about rowing himself, though he had always sailed with his father. He and the Lorathi had taken a small boat once, and had respect for any man with that responsibility. Of course, such a man would have to choose the post to earn it, he had decided. He frowned as he realized he had never thanked the man, so instrumental in his escape from pirates, but if he remembered correctly, Fa'shar helped him in their effort to escape ironmen out of momentary convenience rather than generosity. He wondered how they had survived as long as they had, rowing from the docking to Storrold's Point, especially with no ready source of meat.

A sailor's laugh nearly surfaced as he was glad he never resorted to eating man flesh. Pirates, dogs, even Ghiscari would never allow themselves to sink so low, only a slave would tear the meat from man or woman, without but asking forgiveness from whatever gods they held.

Monkey could never find it within himself to pity the slaves. As foolish and servilely helpless as they were, at some degree they had to be accountable for it, for not all were from Ghis, so they had not the excuse for their natures. He remembered numerous times slaves had been commanded to kill his father, and each time, he had bravely thrown them over the edge of his ship, condemning them to the seabed as they deserved, unable to swim and like as not unable to learn. He could still see the blind ferocity in their eyes, the strength bred into their bodies like beasts with selected mates, he could see it and feel it as they heaved him over the edge of the vessel and caught him in the waves, only to hold him beneath the surface, but his father made short work of them with three arrows to the back.

Men of Ghozai knew in their art and song how the Doom had done its worse to kill them, and the ones who survived the Great Wave were stronger for it. But the beauty of their art on the insides of the pyramids, the majesty of the tall cedars, and the loving embraces of their wives in the diaphanous dresses they wore could not keep the great and noble men from taking to the seas to regain the wealth of the island, to restore ties with old Velos, to rebuild Valyria itself as must the survivors.

The still smoking ruin of the city came once again to his mind, but there was no need to dwell on it. As much of it that he could remember, the dark sword with its golden folded pattern, the endless expanse of ruin with not one stone atop the other, the dark sky like an eternal night, as though Doom lived yet, he could not place his father. He knew not where the man was, how he had arrived there, and he could not recall but one word his father spoke to him, or him his father.

As he sought out further work as though he would work or die, for such was life on the ship before this, he concluded that his vision of Valyria was nothing more, much like the lake he saw in dreams. The lake was not like water but silver and he sank deeply into it, in sleep unable to swim. As the liquid neared his neck he turned to the shore, but the boy in robes who stood there cared naught for him, his eyes casting farther and farther down as their focus sank. Rounding, he saw a man approaching, a familiar man who held out his hand, but he could not stand on the surface of the silver and sank still lower into the deep…

"Monkey!" He jumped, not having seen that he had adjusted the same knot thrice.

"Do my work well, must I, lest make a mistake, should I." He hastily responded, rounding to see the captain. The captain merely shook his head, not listening as the Lorathi spoke hastily on his behalf, rather liking any man the captain did not, as he was one. The Ghozai quickly bound himself to find other work, set that he would not again lose focus. The visions of the night were naught to miss if misremembered, cryptic and uncertain like a book in another man's tongue.

His feet carried him belowdecks where it was for him to separate the slaves once more, glad for work and angry for work unfinished. It was the same captives as before, and this only strengthened his rage. With a chisel from the tool chest he stabbed hard into the male's shoulder, the voices of the low shouting with varying approval. He cared little and less for their thoughts if they had them, but paused to listen. Some called for him to be killed, others for much worse.

The man of Ghozai looked down at the broken female and saw seed drip out of her and a clever way to make her suffer. She was with child already, and doing aught to the man would do naught for the venture, so he elected not to further damage the goods and informed them of his decision.

All favor he had among them was immediately and visibly lost. Once again one beat another and a third until two were dead and an old man was in tears. He stabbed until order was restored and all was a picture of death, his quick count put them nearer to fifty than a hundred.

The captain would have words.


	44. Myren 10

MYREN

A black rat scurried into darkness.

Myren hated waiting like this, but as she stood she remembered Brown Courser was making a perimeter. Sitting back onto the ballast, she needed not hear him say no man was around to hear them.

The ballast was integral to the ship, she knew, the details of the plan flowing freely. They had kept their knowledge of the body in the captain's quarters secret. It had been easy enough, the trouble was telling the captain enough lies to cover for it. She remembered trying not to shake as she whispered to him that his door was unlocked, that aught a man happening by might take something of his. She told him about the empty wine bottles in the passenger's quarters, and of her suspicions they were his.

It nearly caused her to jump as he stuck a finger out and in his broken tongue told her he drank no wine, and no man had been in his room, for he himself had not been in there, and the door was barred from the inside. She nodded and forced herself to back up with no clear haste, however greatly every bone in her body ached to sprint farther afield than she had run in years.

Denys Darklyn had bid her deal with dangerous men before, but never had she seen one so totally convinced not a man knew him for what he was, nor one so convincing. Cocksure captain.

"Morozo's checking to see what the passengers know about the captain." The sellsword began quietly as he entered. "He does his best to keep out of sight."

"When I approached him, alone, as you suggested, I was for nine parts in ten certain that he was the killer. Now, I question why I trusted you enough. Morozo's inquiries are without purpose." She paused, standing to keep alive in the legs. "I should have suspected him from the start. It was the vessel's need of him that blinded me. Had he not been the only man left to steer the craft, I would have seen his suspicious behavior for what it was."

Brown Courser looked doubtful.

"I suppose he's the captain and knows the most, but there might be another man who knew the helmsman well." She stopped pacing. Cocksure knave, he wishes for me to say it.

"That is out of the question." She held up the torrent of cruelty that would without doubt rush forth, keeping her response without emotion. What could he imagine he has learned from the old navigator, knowing him for such a short time? Does he know how to read the stars and skies? What manner of skill has he with storms?

"Well, if we can't do aught about the captain, what would you have us do?" He asked at length, visibly annoyed. It was a question she had pondered herself.

"The captain kills in secret. He wishes, therefore, not to be known." Myren began, pacing once more. "We announce our suspicions for the dead Mantarene, flown of the ship." The swordsman steadily nodded.

"No need to kill him until we port. We take turns keeping watch, and he kills none." Her mind changed course. Before long, the master of the ship would rid himself of the body. It gained him naught while it hung in his quarters, but as he knew, there were only a paucity of chances to heave a mass overboard without notice. The upper deck had been occupied of late, even at night, and aught a man under the stars would be able to hear from whence the sound came.

"We need to have someone out to hear the body drop into the water." She decided. The sellsword began to catch on to the idea.

"Of course… if we prove he is responsible to every man aboard, he will be impelled to behave." The hand of Denys Darklyn smiled as he spoke, rather liking his conclusion. This man had forced her into a wood chest, and it would not do to simply stab him at port. It pleased her to see just work done, and so it served to carry out her ends by decision rather than murder, though murder would do in certain circumstances.

Morozo entered, careful to close the door quickly behind him.

"What have you learned?" Brown Courser asked, turning. As his companion was near to begin, they heard a splashing and all turned toward the sound, at first uncertain to speak. He silently nodded and with a hand on the hilt of his sword, he opened the door as she stood and filed behind the bravo whose blade was not yet free of its thin black scabbard.

The three of them crept swiftly and silently to the upper decks, her a myriad of thoughts rushing through her mind at once. Bodies float in the water. Should we arrive with sufficient haste, the corpse will be visible to another man for a few moments before the ship is too far ahead of it. The reason he had chosen night to throw the bodies over became all the more clear as she saw the body floating. Though he had been mangled, the man from Mantarys was still recognizable as he floated along, a peaceful expression playing across his face in death.

"You there!" The swordsman shouted at a man surfacing from belowdecks, like to see what they were doing. "Look at this man in the water. Do you see him? Might be that you recognize him?" The older man seemed hesitant to answer. "We know who killed him. It was the captain."

"Of course…" The witness backed away slowly and gave Myren pause. With his hand on the wood railing, his eyes glazed slowly from left to right and back again.

"Morozo, he's running!" They gave chase and caught him quickly.

"Please, I would tell no man what…"

"No. You know as well as we that the splashing came before we were out here." A torch lit across the ship and her thoughts once more ran swiftly.

"I know naught! Please, I saw but a body!"

"Stop screaming." Brown Courser held an armored hand over the man's mouth, but it was far too late. Three torches could be seen. Mother, have mercy.

The captain surfaced from his quarters where he must have run mere moments ago.

"What…happens?"

"You know what happened!" She shouted, desperate. "This man saw you! He saw you heave that body into the waves!"

"Body?"

"Please, I only just came up." The older man croaked. Her mind racing, filling the sound of her ears, she leaned over the edge and the dark man from Mantarys had given his farewell. Another man on the deck spoke, one whose face she could not see for the light of his torch, which he held before him.

"If you saw a body and this man says he was not here-" She heard the click of a sword clearing in its scabbard, followed by three more.

"Put it away!" Darklyn's hand kept her voice low and the sellsword calmly clicked it once more in place, carefully eyeing the other men, or what he could see of them. The captain gave a long sigh.

"Take these…two…to my quarters. I shall… deal with them myself." The crewmen looked her over as she raised her arms in the air, allowing the dagger to slip by hilt to the shoulder of her bodice. Her appointed sword surrendered his, as well as a knife from his boot. The old man went swiftly downstairs, muttering thanks to several gods.

In the churning of her thoughts, such thanks had no place. Moments ago, she had believed she would expose the captain to light, but through much like no plan of his, he had turned justice on her.

The torch bearers slammed the door.

"Some justice this is."

"It's not."

"What? He who draws while being questioned scarce-"

"This is not justice. There isn't any. Might be that it's ever been a word without means." He turned toward the large portcullis and opened it with ease. "Men make the realms and the laws. Merely that some wear crowns."

"Where's Morozo?" She suddenly asked, noticing that she had not seen him.

"He wears a dark enough color. Might be he slipped away when the torches lit up." Brown Courser attempted to heave himself to the window, noticing his armor made him too great. He began to remove it as a knock came and the door opened without awaiting a response.

"What do you want from us?" Myren asked, stalling as she tried to prize the blade from her sleeve without cutting her arm off. The swordsman held the door closed.

"Please… I wish to… talk." You will find yourself unable to convince us, captain.

"More like, he's going to string us up like your friend." The dark dagger with its black and silver waves was free at last. With a nod to the swordsman, he flung open the door and the captain spilled inside, but as she knealt, she found a sword to her throat. Standing in the doorway were men concealed by torchlight.

"It was an excellent idea, captain. Now we know their true intents."

"It was not…"

"Kill the man."

"If you dare-" She started, her mind turned to ice.

"You die yourself? I think not." One of them knelt and held out his hand for the weapon. All was ice, all was frozen, the gods if they were, had given men the longest winter. Raising the blade sharply, she beat the sword held but loosely away from her neck and leapt toward her guard on one leg, the other caught and heaved upward as he was stabbed in the stomach. The hand of Denys Darklyn heaved herself onto the ledge of the portcullis, water flowing swiftly as the sellsword shouted, stabbed again and made to suffer. Standing and twisting, she seized the edge of the upper deck and swung her feet away from the round window as she heard the sound of a man already running about to receive her.

She held fast and slowly made her way around the rudder and back wall. Without place for her feet but for one portcullis on the back, her arms ached, but to fall would be to die, to accept a hand would be another fate entirely. Reaching at last the other side of the cabins, she opened and threw herself inside the large rounded window, scrambling on the floor for something large enough to heave out. Taking hold of a chair, she hastily wrapped it in the helmsman's bedding.

When every man roused awake heard the splash, Myren collapsed in a heap. If there are gods, I should like to see them consistent, in the least. Her thoughts were reduced to a slow trickle. Staring out the portcullis, she held herself up as the bundle faded from view as quickly as she had thrown it into the waves.

"Nine times in ten, men see what they believe before believing what they see." spoke Denys Darklyn, as though again standing behind her as had he so many times before.

"Justice has failed me."

"Brown Courser had the right of it, for once in his life of folly. Must be a dying man's wisdom." Their leader responded, speaking as though he paced in the room. "If a man can't trust the kings or gods or other men, he can trust naught save his own sword." With that, the voice and the ringing in her ear was gone. Replacing the dagger in her sleeve at last and force the course of her mind to shift to her next move, a single move to consider as it was much like her last.

The captain had a personal guard, on that she had scarce counted. With the swordsman dead, there was no man to steer but the captain, and to render justice, they had to die.

A rapping came at the door and her heart stopped.

"I have a plan." It was Morozo.

Breathe.


	45. Straachan 8

STRAACHAN

Sitting in the snow against a rock, he remembered there was little need to hone the edge of an estoc, but his hands and mind needed occupation or else they would once again wander. Such is the mind of a moribund man.

The darkening of vision had not killed him in his first few bouts, though scarce could he remember what happened. When he thought about it, the first man might have carried a sword and shield, but he misremembered how he bested him.

"Might be, he was the one who turned when this damnable thing went through his gut." Straachan mused as he worked out the nocks in the blade. He had been unable to retrieve his own from the archer, from what men whispered, he had been sent to Old Stone Bridge Inn, with the mean to 'retrieve a fallen sword' as the woman put it. He remembered scowling in uncertainty under his helmet, he thought the man with his sword neither to have no need for another, nor the manner of man to suffer such a trifling errand.

Thinking on the woman who told him, as she named herself, the hand of Denys Darklyn, the other sent 'to the edge of the world and unlike to return alive', he found it difficult care for Alicent, wife of Noreton Early or whatever hand Darklyn had before. He had met few women in the man's employ, one who held Coliete and whatever woman who served him was a like monster, or a fool.

As the armored man stood, he sheathed his blade, thinking more on the task of the archer. He has won a few bouts in the melee, enough to hear about what the winner would be awarded. A man with poorer taste might have smirked at the Swords for their awarding of titles and tokens when in knowing of their intents, but he gave no sign, even beneath his fullhelm when he saw the sword.

Held above the head of Denys Darklyn, only just having arrived, was a dark sword with a gold rippling pattern, something he might once have seen, but it made no matter. The victor of the bouts would turn that blade against King's Landing. Its name was Lightening, and the moribund man knew from whence it came and how the leader of the Swords Sable came to having it.

His most recent clash in the melee in matches was against a boy, like as not five and ten or near enough. It was distasteful to end the life of someone so young, but knowing the Swords it would be worse to allow him to live. He had little doubt the conspiracy would continue after he killed its leader, but the gods that were had granted him enough time to rend but one evil mind from its body.

It would do little to warn the crowned heads. To his knowing, they were few and like to be incompetent, the warriors and leaders among them dead. He had not seen King's Landing, but had heard it to be in turmoil, noted heads falling from shoulders and something concerning sparrows with swords. The mean to beset it soon was not difficult to understand.

The clanging of steel died down at last and he heard a shouting. The assembled are upset. I only wonder if I should be surprised.

As he approached the wood arena, the victor seemed of slight frame. Two short swords dripped with blood. It had been a triumph not without trial, he could see that from his years of battle and the bent shape of the skeleton in steel plate before the misliked successor walked from the arena to recover and fight again. Straachan set off after, deciding what warrior lied beneath may well not for true be without strength, but simply wear overlarge armor. The figure ahead of him walked quickly up to the castle rather than the tents, like as not to disarm before returning to mix about among the men in the tents and may well return to see further bouts.

At last he caught the suit of steel plates, facing away as the pieces loosened and came free.

"Well met." He started. "I see the men misliked your victory. Perhaps we are not so different." He had met few men who were opposed to the Swords and saw these brigands and sellswords for what they were, but he allowed himself the asperity he would find another.

"I know your voice, good knight, and I must ask you not to see me." The armored man nodded, understanding best of all men another's desire for secrecy.

"Of course." He turned and walked away slowly, wishing no great amount of strain on his heart that beat with poisoned blood.

"You are a gentle knight, Ser. Know that you will not stay that way should you survive this melee in matches." As he walked once more outside to be greeted by the snow and the still air, he breathed deeply and prepared himself for his next bout.

There were fewer and fewer matches with the passing day, the combatants lessened in number and needed time to heal and rest. His fight would be soon, and he would not disappoint the shouting mob. Stabbing in the air with the estoc, he readied himself for the quick kill he would need to survive the fight. Leaving men alive took more strength and time than he cared to expend.

The man who came to tell him his hour had come had only taken up his post recently. It suited the lots that were cast over the bouts to treat men as heroes, but there was little need for that in the first few matches. He followed the younger man to the wood arena and stared across to his opponent.

Would they have me fight a man or a cat?

The man wore mail under firs, carried no sword, but wielded massive blades on his gauntlets. His face was as heavily armored. To the surprise of the moribund man, the assembled shouted in approval. I see. This fool makes sure to give them a show every time.

He raised his blade.

The cat came after him with ferocity, but no true speed. Without altering his stance Straachan jumped and kicked his opponent in the breastplate, where it was plain to any fool that the steel touched his chest. Even with the length of his claws, he could do little and less to reach him before hitting the ground. Before he could right himself, the point of the estoc cut his throat through the boiled leather. The armored man walked away slowly, leaving the cat to live or die by the gods.

The resounding jeers were no less than expected. Many men like as not lost dragons on the bout, others simply hated him for such a quick victory free of flair. Out of the wood arena he went, cursing his eyes as the darkness returned to them. He had noticed flairs of pain in his chest, from time to time leading out to arms and legs alike. His next match would come too soon, and he would have to rest.

Stretching out on the snowfall on a hill, he found that the ice slowed his heart, but too much it felt like death, and he would not lie long. Of course, aged men who know they are soon to die do much the same. They lie and lie and lie, as though preparing for an eternal rest.

He sighed. In better days, he knew for true all men weakened as they died, but his own death was not so easy to accept, not so quick was he to accept it. Fighting to stay awake, his memories of the first few bouts returned, soon to depart once more.

"Fight or die! I shall suffer no craven to live." A green brigand shouted.

In a thousand battles I have seen more brave men die than craven. He raised the estoc without speaking.

The footpad's sword darted quickly, but could be caught straight on the shield and held as his own arm went through his opponent's entrails and out the back. He remembered being taken by the blade's efficiency, more of a stabbing weapon than he had used in earlier days.

The second man had been strong enough, nicking him in the neck, but he rolled, regained his footing, and blocked the next swing with his blade and shield. The man was an assassin by his manner, and carried no shield. He turned and Straachan thought him better for it.

He killed a dwarf and others by seizing stones from the ground and pelting their unarmored bodies. By the moment they reached him, he had already won. His victories earned him neither praise from the mob nor favorable odds by the casters of lots, but he neither wanted nor expected even one of the two. Had a man sworn to fight for Denys Darklyn not entered, it was not for lack of courage but ability, and such men had no knowledge of how bouts were won.

Lying alone in the snow he allowed himself not to sleep, to sleep in the snow was to die. He thought of the following day when, whether by some error or will to see them fight once more, the assassin without a shield faced him again. He had no wish to kill the man in a test of metal, not after he had walked away from the last. And yet, there he was, for some reason having thrown himself back into the melee in matches, for some reason testing once more his mettle when his metal had failed.

The man was fast, but now it was the moribund after him. He quickly parried unexpectedly, but the assassin almost overtook him with a switch and feint. His opponent's movements were hasty and reckless, and the armored man allowed him to tire himself before catching his jaw with a mail fist and cutting to draw blood, but naught more. It would take him time to heal, but he would be better for it.

Six bloody deaths followed that. Of the hedge knights, like as not common killers, he might have left one alive if only just, but never cared he to check. He fought them one after the other, as though his blade and heart were being tested so as to disallow error. The dying man cared little whether they lived, they had hastened his already imminent fate.

But what might I do now? I stare at the sky.

Frustration was not new to him, not on any day of his life. Leaving his home at perhaps five and ten, he had not the faintest idea how many battles he faced as he stared at the continent. Before then, he fought to learn, he fought to protect, and only once to survive. But the island, if men yet lived there, dripped with the painful memories of the sacking and the halcyon days of before. He found work as a day laborer in the North, drawing his sword first against a threat from a brigand, quickly replacing it as the man wisely turned. But as he drew again, it felt as though the blade cleared more easily with the passing time, and again he drew it until it cracked and at last he broke it against a tree in anger. A cracked weapon was of little use as it would break when most needed, but what use was it whole? He remembered his father telling him arms and armor were a gift only to an evil man, a responsibility to him. As long as he carried no sword, he was not bound to raise one for another or himself.

But then came the hour that having broken steel failed to keep his heart from beating, failed to absolve him of responsibility when he saw brigands surround a master and maids.

It was manhood that gave him duty, the blade was mere means.


	46. Hronar 3

HRONAR

Leaping through the trees once more, it was not the first time he wondered if the man was mad. Has he truly set himself on the Wall?

By all looks, it seemed as much. Before reaching the Antler, he made a sharp turn to the south and west. He had chosen to cross it where it was thinner and milder, but rather than return to the eastern shore, he continued on without breaking a stride. Hronar remembered his daughter sighing and going along with it.

They had passed a broken down encampment and the free man could only wonder what had happened there. Torches still flaming were lodged in the ice, others had fallen, still more broken under horse-hoof, as though there were those ahorse who wished them never lit again. Bodies lay half buried in snow run pink with blood, some still with a piece of armor here or there, but no swords of castle-forged steel, those had long since been taken. From their dress, he knew them for crows at once, but found it difficult to feel nothing for them. It was his knowledge that they were the worst of the South, the men who trespassed in all manners, sent to the end of the world as though the ice and wind would freeze their sin and dry it out.

Like, though, they meet the worst of us. They misunderstand our freedom as the chaos they created in the great villages where they once lived.

He looked about at the snow and the treetops and the sky as he leapt between two trees. Across the land, there were no castles to the north, no walls, no place to keep such men, and none to believe it necessary. Once he had met a black ranger who meant to join the free folk. He rather liked their ways, or what he thought of them. The great Magnar of Thenn might have refused, but his leader had been a more lenient man, and told Hronar to fight with the deserter to test his strength. At first it appeared he had won, only to find a dagger to his throat.

Later that year, after he had deserted their lines, he had carved a woman to ribbons and feasted starving on her remains when Hraen found him. He remembered the quietly questioning look his brother gave him as he put an arrow in the crow's back.

Thenn is no place for such men.

The man in black pelts walked along a river he knew to be the Milkwater, Frostfangs to the north and west, or the greater range of them if anything. Seeing a shadowcat on a high ledge as he slipped and regained himself, he wondered what kept them from assailing this so obvious intruder, not willing to rule fear from it. He supposed it was possible they believed he was one of them, were it that wearing a cloak of black fur and full of killing intent be enough. He only whispered a prayer to the gods in the trees that the man's arms and blacks would have the same effect on the rangers that would see him.

He had heard some sort of turmoil divided them. Yet again it was unclear what had happened, or perhaps he alone knew nothing, but the keep to the east of them had been discovered a bloody mess, and there were men who told the two events related. Their ranks had suffered from a lack of order, but just as like a lack of decent men to balance the bloodthirsty.

The castle could not be seen, not even from the trees. Perhaps it's better for Grinya.

As the two of them landed on the ice through which the river ran, he wondered what horrors had she seen. She had learned of the death of her mother the morning after, he could still remember her eyes wetting, her brother stood stock still and looked the more a mere boy than in years he had. He refused to speak for days, taking to the woods as though he aspired to improve his shot enough that he could avenge her. His father knew even then that the chance would never come.

The girl had seen the man in armor tear through five with a greatsword, not an arm for a clean kill, something his brother would never have used. He remembered not her reaction, he had not seen it.

Ahead the swordsman in black passed a shadowcat unbitten. The beast stared, but as if no fear came from him, fear that would force his hand, the beast turned its head and crossed the Milkwater. Having spoken to the man, even hearing nothing back, Hronar had little doubt the animal judged him justly.

He had never to a great degree liked men of the Seven Kingdoms, but doubted his fellow free men knew enough to say all they did. They held their enemies could be neither kind nor cruel, that their acts were simply spoken to them by their kings. The men who disobeyed they called wicked, those without the resolve were good.

A lone rider astride a white horse reigned in. The head of the beast turned and snorted.

"Are you a ranger?" The crow asked, hand on the pommel of his sword as though he waited on an answer, but not the one he wished to hear. "You look unlike one."

It is not a poor judgement. Was it the masque that told truly?

The swordsman simply stared and moved to pass, perhaps unwilling to chase a mounted man.

"I demand to know who you are! There are others coming, you are unwise to draw." A stare through the small black hole for the eye was the only response. It was like that he did not believe.

The horseman raised bow and silence answered. Where the red bearded man had expected a flash of steel and spray of blood, the armored man turned, refusing to heed the thirst. Instead he calmly stepped past the ranger.

Why? What does he know? He saw Grinya drawing nearer, gaining greater vantage. Unarmed, she would do well to hold back, but her father would not begrudge her the mere proximity as she was willing to near it. It was a poor father who punished bravery. He skirted the river and himself closed the gap. The crow's face changed from anger for a heartbeat to fear and Hronar put it together.

No man comes. He is alone.

Ahorse, the man could have easily caught up to him of cloaks over steel, but chose rather to shoot, having given his warning. The target merely shifted to avoid the arrow as he continued. Unhindered, the free man signaled to his daughter that the way had opened. The two of them leapt to their nearest trees and disappeared among the branches as another, two more arrows followed the man in black. The ranger reigned in and pursued the man, keeping the beast at a trot while his target wove through the trees, straying from the Milkwater and taking to the Frostfangs of the western bank. The ground beneath his feet grew unsteady as he climbed the slope and the horse attempted its pursuit. While, as he knew, the crows trained their horses to be sure of foot, the going was not swift for the horseman and a tumble grew likely. Taking up once more his bow, he loosed a fist of arrows as the armored man escaped unscathed.

The man with the red beard doubted the swordsman was incapable of bringing down his foe given time, but all that he had seen before this day told him time was not given. Whatever eye saw through the black hole of the masque, it saw nothing save the destination. He went with a determined stride, caring little for the snow into which his feet sunk.

The bleak sun made the slow journey through the sky.

At last the girl swung near him as the black pelted man rested. Tomorrow would be a strenuous trek, and he would be ready for it. The free man would see he and his daughter just so.

They slept huddled together, as they did on cold nights, but as the nameless gods that helped him sleep beckoned, Grinya appeared troubled. Her breath was even, but as though she anticipated something. He stared.

"Why did you let Hraen go?" Sighing, he thought about it before answering.

"Your brother's leaving was not something I wanted, but our way in Thenn is to be free, and should I keep him, he would know me false. If the hunt is what he desires, he is old enough to know it, and he may yet return, if also he is old enough to be wise."

"…but how can he split a family?"

"It is true that family is among our highest calling, but Hraen does not understand it. It is lost on him until he chooses to learn. I mean not that I know all minds of men, but my brother was much the same as a boy." The girl gestured and turned her back.

"Your brother is the same as a man." Hronar abided it. The last time his brother had spoken, he had told him of the hunting a man could do in the land far to the north. It was a land uncharted, a land only in stories, a land where no man dared travel with any intent of return.

Sleep came swiftly but what dreams came seemed to dwell only in the mind of his daughter, twitching and shifting, waking him as the hours passed in darkness. Perhaps it is time she learns to sleep alone.

Not for the first time, he wondered the life she would live when at last he no longer took care of her. She seemed able to feed and clothe herself, should no man come to claim her, but ever did she resent battle. More than once she had opined that bloodshed wasted lives, and was better employed when other options failed. For his own part, he never asked what others existed with White Walkers. If she would learn the ways of the world, she would learn them herself, lest truth forever come from another's eyes.

Rising at last, he stretched his limbs and started after the man with the greatsword. He feared not for Grinya's ability to catch up, from her dreams he knew she slept quite well. As he threw himself into the trees, he slung once above them to catch sight of his mark. In the distance the Shadow Tower could be seen and there could be no mistake, they would meet its walls with haste.

He means not to climb the wall so close to its watch. He means to pass through the castle, unless this is where he goes.

Hronar had tossed around the idea the man in black was a returning crow or a man with the intent to join their ranks, but the encounter with the ranger had otherwise assured him. He was not one of them, nor had he meant to become as such. What remained for business with the Wall was a mystery, as he had not the intent to cut his way through, as that would slow him. Crossing the Gorge would be worse, and its bridge would be guarded.

Hearing the light movements of the girl behind him, the free man was glad at least she seemed to hate it less than her brother, possibly less than he. She seemed not to mind tracking the man to discover his purpose, though he hoped it was not out of simple obedience. There was a time when the children of Thenn grew old enough to make their own decisions.

At last the true matter could be seen as they walked toward a small clearing. A mass of free men waited on the Weeper, or perhaps his replacement, his memory failed him. Swiftly putting it together, Hronar wondered how long they had gathered for the second assault on the bridge, how well known it was across their lands. As for his own part, he had not expected so many. An older spearwife among them raised her head at the sight of the man in black pelts.

"Looks like we've the sign we needed."


	47. The Ghozai 4

THE GHOZAI

Lorath was at last upon them and he could not leave the ship soon enough to suit him. The last days had been the worst of his life, he remembered a myriad of troubles with his father, but not once had he felt as low as a slave, not once had he sailed the sea with men who would see him thrown to its waves.

The wrath of the crew preceded that of the captain.

Though the captives had preserved much of their number, his work had cost them gold they would sooner beat out of him than allow to slip away. The man with the tattoo of the cow's head looked down upon him, and his blood boiled, loath was he to suffer such contempt and pity from a former slave. Fa'shar spared him not, unwilling to lose the gold for which they had set out, however little he cared for the cargo. Only when at last did he truly believe himself out of the worst of the beatings did the Mereenese woman approach him. He coughed blood trying to speak.

"Think not I come only as you weaken. You were weak before. You avoided me." She grinned, the scars on her face stretching like seams. "You feared me." A she kicked him several times in the ribs, he knew it was merely for her own pleasure.

He remembered lying there as long as permitted, rising only as the thought of being clamped in iron crept into his mind. Struggling to retain balance, he made his slow way onto the deck, where the sky was dark, where the last men finished their work. Nearly tripping over his feet and losing what little remained in his stomach, he forced his body to the vessel's edge. Soon it would have no more work to do. Soon it would have rest. A hand grabbed his waist and threw him onto the deck.

"There is no reason why I should not throw you over. You are a vile, pathetic worm, less than the lowest of the slaves with the meanest of lives." Pain seized his entire body, his injuries flaring. Monkey could not but turn his head to see. "But should your departure from this ship grant a mere modicum of peace, you will not have it should I first die." At last he rolled onto his back and cast his eyes on the face of his assailant. "You began to hide from me when I extended a hand of friendship. I treated you to wine and told you of my sins. I knew you had never been a trader. There are men aboard my ship who are murderers, do you before the gods believe for even a moment lies will work? Twice I gave you the chance to confess." Caht'oreb stared out over the sea, unable but to look at the wretched pile of limbs that was the Ghozai.

Time passed and he attempted once to sleep, casting the black mat over his mangled body.

"Even now you carry the gift of that maid." The blood leaving his head gave an odd sense of clarity. Coughing again, he attempted to express his confusion, knowing naught of a maid or any gift. The captain seized him in a wordless rage, nearly shouting through his teeth. "In all my life- my life of shaking hands with common killers, rapists, and slaves, I was honored by the company I kept." He poured the last of his wine, a sickening yellow Ghiscari, all over the bleeding body. "I never had to meet you." He uttered, crouching closely to his enemy's unrecognizable face. Rising, he momentarily turned to stare over the edge of the small ship, seething with rage.

Monkey had never known what horrors waited hidden behind the peaceful nature of the master of the ship. Perhaps, had he known the man to be capable of such fury, his actions would have been different.

"I put it together, you know. You are a lie." He paced now slowly around the body. "Since first you eluded me for my judgement of your character, I have asked about you. You are not the same as what first we allowed aboard, you are filled with lies upon lies, and men have noticed little, for your arts are great but mine are greater still. You have altered your own sight." The pacing stopped. "It was not without difficulty to see, but when first aboard, you appeared to know the maid you now deny. As her mind began to slip, she gave you that pelt, perhaps to in it hide what remained of herself. I find fault with no man who knew her not for seeing her as a mere beast, but you regard her no differently. You speak with the crew more and more as your confidence and false name grow, you tell them stories of a father who never was, a father with no face, a father with no name. You claim to be a trader of the seas, but you cannot swim. That you were unaware only further proves your alteration of memory."

The Ghozai attempted to crawl once more, regaining some modicum of strength in his arms and leg.

"You have no father. You have no trade." The words came like waves that shook the whole of the ship. "What you are was no great mystery. You impose distance between yourself and all that you hate and fear, the same do you with the truth. You avoided the deathlike gaze of the maid, the woman who could kill you but has yet to harm a soul, you avoided me. The matter you avoided with the most futile, furtive ferocity, a matter for which I would have easily forgiven you was what you are."

He writhed about on the ground as the man held him in place by a wounded arm. His thoughts raced, thoughts he had refused to allow, thoughts he would not permit.

"You are a slave." A beating came from within his skull, striking with such vigor as to force his eyes from his head. His shaking hands pressed against his face, desperately trying to suppress the pain as his heart increased its pace. With an unknown strength he heaved himself off the ground once more and lunged for the vessel's edge. With a swift blow to the face, all was black.

The silver sea was aflame in its molten fury. There would be no refuge to take in the waves from what broke on the shore. He ran from the beach to the forest, the tall cedars almost concealing the divine war in the sky, the black clouds casting lightening upon the ships, setting them ablaze and enraging the inferno further. Climbing a pyramid for some hope of shelter when the wave broke, he heaved himself from the path of the light breaking between the clouds. The light tore through the pyramid, destroying it as the sea destroyed the shore. A scream escaped him as it forced his eyes open.

"They said you would wake. I figured you'd rather stay asleep. It's a nice way to die." The voice came from a young man standing over him, stooping to raise him to his own shoulder. "For what it's worth, I learned my lesson. They really made sure to beat it into me, though it appears you needed still more instruction." His head was swimming, but he managed to discern the sounds and smells of a port. The crew led the slaves in a tight mob, though he could not see the purpose of the formation, he assumed there was one. "You can walk, no? You've slept long enough." Released, he steadied himself on a leg against the mainmast. Staring into the pot of water for small fires, he saw no injuries on his figure that would long last.

Men moved about him with a degree of haste, though he was not hindering them. His voyage and work were completed, and he would leave when it pleased him. In the procession of captives, he saw no ill or infirm, though an old woman hobbled among them. Uncertain about what he saw and why it irked him, he turned and limped belowdecks, finding a solitary figure in the filth.

"Think not we would never have sold her." A voice began as he made his way across the room. "She will never walk. We are not to sell in Lorath. She must stay." The Mereenese woman left, content with her explanation. Taking a hammer and chisel, he broke the chain without notice.

This is my response. This is my response to it all.

It was as though some overcast had cleared within his mind and at last he could think clearly. Taking the female slave by an arm, she felt like a skeleton as he set her on his back. The filth seeped down his shirt and squished between his toes as he dragged her out of it.

May the gods answer as they will.

He surfaced into the light and was grateful no man cared where he took the girl. Many and more would be glad to be rid of her. His motives and means made no matter to them. She clung to his back but made no movement as he carried her, as would a lamb on the shoulders of its herder.

Only hours ago men thought her a low beast. She became what we believed her to be.

His hand raised to his eye briefly, but there was no need. If aught a man saw him, not one among them would remember. Sighing as he kept her on his back through the crowd, his knees began to weaken as shame merely began to weigh on him.

I had called myself a man.

Unable to allow his mind and body to unravel, he walked the plank to the port, the unease of his sea legs further weakening his step. Ahead, he caught sight of the captain. It appeared they meant to reveal the tight crowd quickly to the city and lessen suspicion. They would have to board once more, The Free Cities were no place to sell, but it provided the chance to clean the ship and supply it for a short voyage.

"What does a man do for work in Lorath?" The master of the ship turned, lips twitching once.

"Honest work? On whose account ask you?" He turned. "The city offers enough work at the docks. You may have tired of seeing ships for a lifetime, but it pays well for a man without other skills. You have them, of course, but for honest work they will not aid you." His words were swift and fair. Perhaps I would have gained more from them sooner.

"Fair winds, captain."

With those words he departed.

Finding a place for the girl to sleep was not without trouble, but a man with a spare room would have them a few nights. The bones of the Blind God lie uninterred in Lorath, as his old friend had said, and the magisters had not forgotten the tenets of Boash. If the owner of the house did not provide a room, they would soon take one and give it away.

All men are equal in the eyes of the blind.

He had bid her wash herself in the sea as he sought out lodging, and she seemed to understand enough to hobble into the water with a stick and stay there. It would not be easy to sleep with the smell, but there were yet other matters to attend. She would soon die without food, and when the man offered them food lest they go through the trouble of demanding it, he was content to give his own bread to her, though he had not eaten it in his memory.

He sighed, knowing that there was still more to do, so much more she needed that he owed, though the memories were still returning. She needed clothes, rest, and when she remembered herself, she would have to decide whether or not to return home. He assumed she would, but rest was the only thing he could provide.

As his eyes closed, he cast the pelt over her.


	48. Myren 11

MYREN

What horrors had come, what horrors yet were.

Myren paced in the dark room. The plan had been perfect. There was not in it but one flaw. It had worked, and she was trapped.

Morozo had played his part well. His distraction had served to draw men's eyes away from her. He took the captain's men over some old evidence under the pretense of finding her. Sea charts, the bottles she found, the like. In truth, there was a dual purpose. While she opened the portcullis in the helmsman's room and climbed once more around the back of the cabins, hanging over the waves and nearing the quarters of the master of the vessel, he proved her innocence. He would say naught of the sort to them, but explain through the evidence that she had been seeking the true killer. Once she had her blade to the captain's throat, he would reveal what the helmsman had discovered.

"You? What do-" The dark dagger caught his next word.

"As we speak, a man convinces your guard of your guilt." You were a fool to let them from your sight. Cocksure knave.

"Please! Know … no"

"We know about the owner of the ship. He died rather mysteriously, didn't he?" The words flowed perfectly, not one fault. "The helmsman knew about it. Perhaps he was wise to your plan, perhaps he saw a chance to secure the ship for himself. It makes no matter to the Swords Sable."

The older man tried to choke out a response, but Myren decided that if there were gods, they would not care to hear him.

"The man from Mantarys you denied. It was clever to hurl him to the sea as all men slept, but we three were awake, and we heard the sound of the body hitting the water. You were the only man who could have done it." He struggled vigorously, aware of his imminent conviction. The idea of a behaved captain pleased her, one whom all knew was guilty. "You knew how to act the fool, making yourself look guilty in such a clear manner any who would resolve the mystery dismiss you."

Glancing around the room as she led him from it, there was no sign of blood from first death in the room, but more than enough from Brown Courser. Her mind changed its course as she forced her hostage into the short hallway between the rooms.

It looks the Mantarene was easily scoured. It is like to be planned this way. Searching upstream in her memories, it was unclear the moment she saw the dark man hanging in the captain's room, but she remembered no blood on the floor or walls despite the gruesome manner in which he had been tortured.

"Listen well." She began, adhering to the plan. "We need you to steer and command the ship, as you realized when you killed the helmsman. I suggest you confess as I open this door." The hand of Denys Darklyn pressed the alternative into his throat as she urged him out onto the deck.

Light pained her eyes, she remembered, as they faced Morozo and the guard. Myren heard not his words, but it was like that he had already made them see reason.

"Confess!" She shouted, an alien sensation of haste gathering within. Her hand shook with anticipation of the plan coming to fruition. As her vision cleared, the man with the thin sword was turned away to the men, an expression of confusion on his face. Slowly, the captain reached up and touched her hand as he spoke.

"Will not…you…" Do you mean I have not the means?

"Confess!" Her voice rang out once more, almost as certain. The personal guard on the deck grew agitated and one or another took a cautious step forward.

"Please… my chi-"

"Cocksure knave!" In a single motion she killed him, drawing the dagger across and letting the blood fly. "You should have confessed!" She heard screams everywhere. "You could have lived!" The men of the guard touched their swords. "I don't care if you inherit this ship! Your fool's plan would have worked!" Kicking the body, she almost failed to notice as the swordsmen surrounded her.

What a fool had I been.

As they took her by the arms to the helmsman's quarters, where she had spent the last paucity of days, the last thoughts in the course of her mind were of how forestalled her death would be, how the ship would idle without direction, or worse, how an incompetent would stray farther and farther off course. Perhaps, as a killer, they would see her starve first.

And yet, the vessel did not but slow.

Myren put it together sitting atop the chest that once held her. Brown Courser had told her that Morozo in the past had a kinship with the helmsman. Not merely did he know him, he was one himself and had ever been able to direct a ship. Bogothi, the helmsman, had well and truly suspected the captain for the death of the owner, but however the owner died, it had been the man darkly clothed to kill him. The Mantarene was a loose end, or possibly further evidence against the master of the ship. He had left no blood in the room where she found him because he had been killed elsewhere, his corpse drained of blood and hung only briefly in the captain's quarters, whose resident never knew about the body. When said body needed to be thrown from the vessel's edge, Morozo needed to be seen elsewhere, specifically by me and by the sellsword. He released the small boat days earlier, but only to make it appear the man from Mantarys had escaped, and then to use the lowering mechanism to prolong the body's descent, giving him time to appear before us. He needed to kill the captain, but not with his own hand, and he needed me out of the way.

She took a deep breath. It was a clever plan, but naught more. Though I may piece together the whole of it, knowing its many intricacies will help me little. What I need is a way of retrieving the body.

The hand of Denys Darklyn had long learned that the Swords had pricked her for dead, the letters had stopped and she was not inclined to send them. Her life was forfeit the moment she killed the captain, or perhaps the moment she chose to trust Morozo. It made no matter. What remained was to remit the remains of Escanane Waters, fulfilling her role in the most ambitious of the three designs to secure the Seven Kingdoms, to depose the crowns.

Allowing herself at last to wake from slumber and seize the portcullis, it was clear the ship neared Naath, though it would not stop as she had hoped. The man at the helm was no friend of hers, and should he moor the ship on the rocky shore, if only to appease the merchants on the vessel, eager to trade for exotic goods from Sothoryos, he would not permit her aboard with the body in the box.

Deciding she was well to assume the ship would pass the island, she unhinged the round window, backed against the wall, and moved as quickly as possible to heave herself through it, lowering herself on the length made from clothes and bedding that she had made in the days she had spent locked in the helmsman's room. Myren was in the water.

It had been years since she swum. Cocksure, she heard in the flow. She forced herself to the island, farther and farther from the ship, from which shouts came, from which she could expect arrows to follow. Morozo would scarce allow her to live knowing the truth, but she cared little about his scheme and vessel, the end of a long voyage so close at hand.

Reaching at last the rocks of Naath, the ship had cut closer to the shore, the arrows were only narrowly missing. They came, the natives, the yellow-eyed, from the trees they came. Filled with panic, she ran among them and they scattered, unwilling to be struck by weapons meant for her back. Thinking quickly, the floodgates had been released.

The master who sent the box to the island would never have cared where it went. To him, Naath was simply a lost island at the end of the world, and any location would be acceptable. Looking around at its people, she reminded herself she would not again dismiss the island as had he. The coffin was most like to lie alone in plain sight, and after but a moment of searching, she found it, the hidden wonder so cruelly taken from the swords, the return to the graces of Denys Darklyn. He heard, he suspected, he knew she had failed to keep the girl prized from her grasp by the hedge knight with the naked shield.

"Have you come to make slaves of us?" A voice came. Spinning about, she faced a grey woman, an islander. Her face was like a masque and from it stared yellowish eyes. She had not seen them come from the forest far from the coast.

"No. I would have again a box. It was dropped on the shore." The flow of her mind refused to divert, thoughts of the future came from the undertow.

"A box you say? We have one. Perhaps it is yours." The woman led her into the trees, the arrows having stopped. It is like that Morozo told them it was not worth the shooting. If they moored, they would have a better chance to kill her. The Naathi would not interfere. If not, she would be marooned.

Myren was thoroughly worn from worry, but there would be days, perhaps turns of the moon ahead to recover. Her body carried itself at its very limit. The native led her to a small clearing in the forest, butterflies floating about.

"Wait here." Briefly wondering where the woman had learned the Common Tongue of Westeros, she diverted her mind once more. Should the helmsman elect not to moor, she would be forced to wait for a slave ship. Peaceful to the point where she had misgivings about their sanity, the men of the island made perfect slaves. Before long, a ship would come and she would board it, forming a plan to avoid boarding in chains, much like requiring her to threaten to release the plague.

"The Lord of Harmony brings peace to all, warrior woman." The hand of Denys Darklyn bothered not to amend. To them, she was at war. Perhaps vermin were at war with men's heels. "Be not troubled when we tell you your box contains a man passed from this world." Two large men carried the box easily between them. For an instant she wondered how many dragons each would gain a slaver.

"I am aware. It is a friend of mine and he must be interred in a lake as were his wishes. He must be returned to his land, far from here."

"Though ours is sacred soil, we understand your wishes. Perhaps you should like to gaze upon your companion once more? The passing moons will afford no other chance." She spoke with an easy manner and opened the coffin, a wood one, which she must have misremembered.

Clutching her stomach as she sunk to her knees, her arms weakly supported her at the visage she saw. Raising her head once more in disbelief, she caught sight of a missive on paper on his chest.

The body was Colt Tanner, Sword of Duskendale.

Wherever Escanane Waters was, this corpse, the gold it must have cost to send it, the wooden box, amounted to naught save a clever diversion and for her a failure and a guarantee she would never find the true body. With shaking hands she grasped the writing and read.

_I knew a maid named Asanna Snow. She was the one light in the world, failing to accept the realities of the realm I learned shortly after leaving the Citadel. She gave me hope as I led her to a safe place in a world where no man or maid or beast or bird is safe. Denys Darklyn burned her alive._

_You live in a dream where men live in peace with no kings to hold them in check. You live in a dream where history will forgive you for unleashing plague across the realm. You live in a dream where you are better than the men you kill._

_Allow me with this my final act of impotent rage against your forest of swords and dragon's hordes of gold to show you the most minute fraction of the pain, confusion, and lost hope in the beating heart of Asanna Snow as Denys Darklyn held her in fire._

Howling, Myren rushed through the trees, tripping over herself and bleeding until at last reaching the rocks of the shore where she felt all the color drain from her face.

Morozo had not moored.


	49. Straachan 9

STRAACHAN

"Hedge knight!" The voice rang out with anticipation. Though his eyes pained him and darkened, though his knees were stock still, though the blood in his veins ran cold and black, he would not shrink from the call. Like a corpse with tasks undone he rose to meet his final foe.

In the days that had passed, his vision had grown worse with exertion, to say little and less of his other ails. The sword had been revealed to the men who had reached the last bouts, its deadly gleam of gold cast a pale lightning storm across the dark plane white with snow. It was Denys Darklyn who held it aloft, and it was he who merited the focus of the moribund man. Men already eliminated from the ranks, but fortunate to have left the melee with their lives, would come by him from time to time. Though it was not his concern, he had spared one or another, and they would sooner see him win than another. From time to time one would ask what he meant to do with the sword. Having thought about it, he designed to leave it to the owner of the estoc. The archer was not a good man, but he was not a Sword, not for true. For his own designs, he would not live to enjoy the steel.

"Ghost of Harrenhal!" He had not heard the name, but it made no matter. His enemy wore steel plate and carried a thin sword in both hands, bearing no shield. He raised his own weapon, ignoring the feint and catching the true strike on his shield, striking at the knee and up to his opponent's side. A boot met his shield and he pulled back, feeling less strength than he expected. Straachan struck quickly with the pommel, but the skeleton in steel plate managed to extricate the weapon without being hit.

Already I recognize my enemy. Might be my vision returns.

The armored man parried the blow of the two handed sword, knowing rightly it would come with little enough force. All at once the thought filled his mind that his final bout would be too easily won, that so close he had come to death to fight a skeleton. Swinging with greater strength, the ghost easily evaded the blows, perhaps earning the name once more, but the moribund man knew it was weakness rather than agility. His opponent had been worn to death before fighting him, and had not the will to keep alive. Flying into a rage greater still, he mistepped and was easily struck with the pommel, a blow that might have broken his neck had it come from a worth adversary. He drove his enemy to the ground with his shield arm, retrieved a belt knife, and stabbed through the weak throat.

Forcing himself to stand as the skeleton sputtered lifeblood, he found sympathy difficult.

"You have no place on this field. Your death is your own doing."

"Gentle knight… remove my helm." The voice came out almost a whisper, higher than he might have thought. "… as once I… removed yours." A strange sickness crept into his mind as he undid the fullhelm and removed it. The face was of a woman with flaxen hair. A shout of fury escaped his throat, one the crowd in the wood arena mistook. Forcing the estoc into his scabbard, he replaced the helm and stood, shaking with hatred.

"First I would die for poison." He muttered, teeth like to break from grinding. "Then I would die for killing the Sword." The cheers at last stopped, confused at the man who stood stock still over a body. "Now I die for just deserts."

A halfmaester came to look him over before sending him onward. Straachan refused to remove his armor and simply walked past the man. Uncertain, the scholar rounded and kept in step.

"I mean no slight, yet your wounds may-"

"They are no worse than what a man can bear. Should I die, be sure and care for the body lying aside." He spoke, eyes not leaving the doors to the keep, lest once more they leave him and impel him to keep straight until they deigned to return.

"Do you expect to die?" The question came sincerely, the man of letters was truly unsure.

"I die as all men must." The moribund man stopped at the doors, allowing them to be opened for him, not trusting his body with further strain. Stopping and starting, as he walked, the halfmaester may have passed for contemplative, but such was naught more than the way of men who learned from the Citadel but not yet the realm.

"You know what I meant." He nodded to the boldness he had not expected.

"Death is not the worst of evils." The scholar ceased his wasted pursuit and rounded as the vaulted doors opened and the armored man walked inside.

The visage of Denys Darklyn aligned with his helm from across the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, the dark holes for eyes with a maudlin expression. The man had a fondness for the grape.

"So you are the victor, then? I was sure for nine parts in ten the woman would have you. She was quite skilled, for true. I once knew another with such stoutness, pity they seem to disappear on me." Straachan said naught, keeping his pace toward the Sword, with all his will forcing himself not to run. There were archers in the room, men the leader let not out of his sight. His hand gently rested on the hilt of the estoc, providing no cause for concern.

Mere feet from him, the leader smirked. "Do you know why I thought you would fall?" he asked. Before he could but blink, the steel flew and cut into the shoulder as arrows thudded into his chest, forcing him to the ground before he could complete the strike. "It is your skill, hedge knight. Had you believed I would forget you?" He coughed blood as an archer grabbed his sword and prized it from his grasp. "You are but a worm, for true, yet your valor is easily remembered."

As black surrounded his eyes, he knew not for his vision fading, he heard the taunting voice request he be disarmed.

His dreams were fleeting and easily misremembered.

The moribund man sat alone at a long table for what seemed the first in years. Overcome with an ineffable lightness, he found that he wore no armor, but the elegant raiment of a lord. When pain returned to him in his back, it was from the arrow wounds, bandaged, yet bleeding beneath.

"You are well and truly defeated, my Faceless Man. I must tell you, your face looks rather unlike what even I imagined, but I suspect your greying skin and black veins strangling your blue eyes are fitting for a man soon beneath the ground." Darklyn carried a goblet of wine, a purple vintage.

"What is it you want?" He knew well enough, but having him say it would get him closer.

"More wine, at the moment." Noticing a goblet on the table, Straachan took it. His enemy smirked. "A pity you will not live to enjoy it, but I suppose I could pour by way of hospitality. Worry not, you will have no bread and salt, and Harrenhal is not mine." Taking the wine, he was sure to sip little and less of it, replacing it close to his chest.

"What do you want for the realm?"

"Ah. The brute hedge knight begins to suspect I have plans. For true, my ways are not without violence." You burned a maid to cinders. He lurched forward suddenly, but restrained himself as his heart nigh on stopped. "Of yours, I can say little and less of the same." The leader of the Swords stepped away from the table, not quite pacing, merely walking about as though interested by what should pass before his eyes more than the conversation. "Were there aught you could do about my plans or me, you would not encounter either. I am an elusive man, a mystery to all the great crowns. To us, there were plans three, each not counting on the others."

"I know enough of your plans. I want to know why children have to die for them." Darklyn turned his gaze aside as the moribund man leaned over his own goblet. It may be my only chance.

"I make no illusion of necessity. The maid was a mere instrument by which to release my anger. Men about me truly believe the Volantene plan would work here. The truth is, the realm is accustomed to a powerful man, and when one dies, he is replaced. When we seize control of King's Landing, kings entire will be replaced, not by a successor of blood, but thought. The good people of the Seven Kingdoms deserve a new class of leader. The higher Swords tell me I merely serve as the head of our armies if they can be called as such. They will see how I fill the hole left by the crowns, how much clearer I shall make things for simple minds. Should the men want bread, they will have gold. Should they bore, they will have war. Here make I all the illusions, hedge knight."

He sank back into his chair, dark blood now streaming from his wound, unable but to move his limbs.

"Why did you seize the maid?"

"The one who was with you, I presume? It was a choice of the swordsman who took her, I remember not his name. He may have wanted naught more than a way of halting your pursuit. Myren believed she could be questioned, but little and less came of it."

"I have heard the name."

"Yes, she was once my hand, if you will." He turned away once more. "I made the position to suit a woman of wit and mock the hands the crowns possess. Many of them, queens oft as kings, would die before having a woman as a hand. The idea amused me." His eyes went dark, worse than ever before, as though his body had held his departure until the very moment. Straachan had not slept, not dreamed in days, fearing never waking and failing.

"What of her?"

"When she returns to Westeros with the body of Escanane Waters, whose passing my men only just-" Darklyn turned, emphasizing the point "only just let slip through the captain of the ship first bearing him back. It was a moon's turn or near enough before the entire world of men who lead secret lives knew of the bastard and the place from whence he returned. No matter, he will once more serve us in death. Of course, should she die, by malady, like as not, I have already arranged a replacement, one I can easily remove."

"Will you remove her like Catelyn Blackwood?"

"That was well and for true none of my doing. The brigands may have been working for another party, but I know of only the Old Queen with men running about. She seems to be in a desperate attempt to regain some degree of control in the little game they play in King's Landing." Unable but to draw breath, his arms were locked in place, his feet not but feeling.

"I … die."

"For true? I had begun to suspect as much when I saw your face. It appeared as a malady of the blood, naught I might suspect like to spread." The Sword looked up and down the table. "It is a pity, really, I found you droll for a man soon to die, and you have not but touched the Myrish purple." A gleam came into his eyes. "Shall I force it down your throat, brute? Would you appreciate the vintage?"

He summoned what little strength remained and twisted his spine, leaning overmuch to the side and falling to the floor.

"No, it would be wasted even yet." The voice of a maid called out to him from the distance.


	50. Hronar 4

HRONAR

The crossing had gone as planned. No fewer than a score died from the sheer numbers on the bridge, perhaps a score more from the archers. He kept Grinya close by him, admonishing it was best to see what the toll was before crossing the bridge. Once across, the man with the masque of black and gold held firmly shut the door to the bridge area on the gate of the imposing castle. The horde of bodies forced their way after the fastest among them, some scaling the wall, others held back.

A commander, advanced in age, came into being atop the gate, slicing the first head from its shoulders at the sounding of a horn.

"What is it this time?" He said in a sneering voice, perhaps more annoyed than anything else. "Would you settle on the Gift as have your friends?" One of his men kicked a second from the wall. "Bad news!" He barked. "Until I have orders to allow passage, I mean to hold this castle and the West Wall until I die. Who among you leads?" On the ground, a spearwife pushed her way to the front.

"This crossing was mine. Tell me your name."

"It must be, then! My name is Dondel Stone, commander of Westwatch-by-the-Bridge!" He shouted. "Tell me your worthless name!"

"I am Rylla, slayer of ironborn and wife to Geris of the Frostfangs!" The woman shouted merely to make her words clear against the wind. Hronar detected little annoyance. "We seek passage!" From a tree near him, his daughter lowered herself to the ground, moving closer to the voices. Allowing that the arrows would not reach them and they, on the other side of the gorge, would not be targets, the red bearded man descended himself.

"Seek elsewhere! You will find naught save death here!"

"We know your garrisons are light! We know you have little in your stores! Allow us to farm the land to the South, and we survive the winter together!" Silence sounded across the land, down from the castle, up from the chasm. The realms of men waited as a ranger near the commander of white hair talked with him. Nodding, he allowed the younger to speak.

"We have been preventing you from the Seven Kingdoms for a number of reasons, the first being the threat you pose and the second your disregard for the kings and their laws. Should you prove yourselves aught apart from a threat, you will be free to pass." Words flowed between the free folk.

"What, in your mind, would prove our intents?" The spearwife's question was critical, but fair. Grinya drew closer, but her eyes were not set on the speakers.

"You may volunteer a great number of men about you to garrison the Shadow Tower." A resounding tone of complaint came, but the ranger continued to speak. "The night is dark and full of terrors, and if you would prove you are not one of them, you may do so by helping us to face them." Silently the idea passed between them, some, perhaps a moiety, agreeing. It was not a clear choice. Many had questions.

"Would you have but men?" The woman was of stable frame, her weapon a steel sword, like taken from a crow no longer needing it. "I should like to defend Thenn from White Walkers."

"You should like to do naught but cause trouble!" the commander shouted. "By the gods, we have but one garrison of you lot and it's a damned disaster!" Rage came up from the lower ranks, weapons raising. "Are you hard o' hearing?! Clear out if you don't like it!" Hronar had seen nothing like the scene unfolding.

Perhaps this is how we know all men are threatened by the dead men on dead horses. Crows and free folk are talking. Do the nameless gods laugh?

He and his daughter stood alone on the opposite end of the long bridge, its skulls on stakes forced from their places by the forceful crossing. They could only just see the man in black pelts, his greatsword holding the door firmly shut. Unmoved was he by the talking around him. The girl stared silently at him, perhaps wondering how long his strength would hold. He had been wondering the same himself. The armored man tested his back against the force of all the men mere inches away.

"We would hear your opposition." A free woman called, unwilling to dismiss the offer entirely.

"The Night's Watch is a brotherhood of no children. Men are sworn to protect the Wall with their lives, and no man may have means in his mind for other lives." It was the younger man once more, and for a brief moment the free man wondered if all negotiations in the Seven Kingdoms went in the same manner. The idea behind it was clear enough to him, but perhaps he simply stood far enough afield to see. The commander, Dondel, was to be misliked. He shouted, he did not explain. The other was just the opposite.

"Do you not forswear the love of a woman? Must you have them out of your sight?"

"Our oath comes from a day the kings did not thrust upon us their vilest criminals and blackest sinners. Honorable men here remain, yet so long as others do, we remember the words mean only as much as the man from whose lips they come." The words were well considered, it was like that many of the free believed them a confession of what they had suspected or known. A mass of them gathered and words flew swiftly.

"We have come to a decision, brother of the black. We are greater than six scores, and two shall serve among you, ranging into the dark. We would lose no more men." Acknowledging it simply without offer, the younger crow nodded, calling for the way to be made straight as the commander held the archers at ready. The red bearded man wondered how much of the plan, so carefully worked into shape over the past few days, the men atop their walls had pieced together.

"Father, why do free women fight?" It appeared as though the question had been on her mind for some time.

"In Thenn, women fight because not doing so will not save you. All who die may take up arms to guard themselves, to keep them from fighting would be cruelty, against the ways of a free realm."

"Why do women of the Seven Kingdoms abstain?" It was a logical enough request.

"Kneelers rely on other men to preserve their lives. When a man does battle south of the Wall, he believes other men will fight by the same rules. He dies. The same is true with the women. They believe they will not come into suffering by a man because they believe in the men with crowns. Though they are aware the rules will not protect them, they are unwilling to be rid of them. They act the way they would have other men act, and pray it will truly work."

Silence passed between them as the men who wore black stood on both sides as the mass of them, mostly women, walked slowly through. Hronar could see a few hands touching spears, as though readying for some manner of trap to spring. Once through, they turned to see the rangers had closed the way behind. Many and more carried but a spear, but one and another raised a weapon, then more. Men of the Wall continued, hedging them in with shields and taking them through the narrow way through the wall. Screams rang out as it became clear what had happened. Though they were far afield of him, he doubted little that they could see what happened at the gorge. As the mass of them were being hedged through the wall, another line of shields formed preventing the two scores of men from nearing. Jabbing through their line with shortswords, the crows pushed them back, toward the bridge and the chasm.

"Father, we must act!"

"I have your life to mind, my daughter. These men chose to leave Thenn and trust the crows. I swear to you on this day that there will come a time when winter winds rage and we shall cut them down for their crimes against us. They will regret leaving us alive." Silently he prayed his words would convince the both of them.

"In the Seven Kingdoms, they would not allow such injustice to stand!"

"These men are from-"

"Wicked things happen north of the Wall, father, wicked things we as Thenn could control."

"Wicked things happen south- Thenn is not one man."

"You're just like Hraen! You would never fight for our land!"

"It is no man's land and I have fought for it! I fight for freedom, not order- this is order!" He was shouting, turning her to the commander shouting at his men as the free folk were forced into the gorge. "This is what men may do if you allow them to rule over you! Do you believe every last ranger does as he wills? Men of the black are killed for deserting!"

"And killed they must be! They forsake the defense of their realm from the White Walkers. They fight the cursed wights and we but stand in their way."

"We would not be in their way, as you put it, had they allowed Mance Rayder through. There are those of us who would be anywhere else than among the dead." The father could see his words were to little effect. He pointed toward the top of the Wall. "Do you recognize that man? You should, we have been following him for days." He stood there silently, staring down at what unfolded below him, perhaps having been simply mistaken for a ranger by the others for his blacks. "What is his name?"

"I know not his-"

"Therein is the trouble with armies, Grinya. You know not his name, and he knows not yours. If he were ordered, he would kill you."

"He spared me before."

"He spared your brother, and that was his own choosing, not that of his new master. Have I told you he once dragged an old man through ice and snow, leaving a trail of blood? He was an ironborn, and I committed him to the sea. He is a cruel man, driven by vengeance. I should not have left him alive, but I owe him the life of my son."

The girl's face flashed red and words would no longer settle the matter.

"You permitted Hraen to leave. I should like the same."

"He did not walk into a losing battle unarmed."

"I'll have yours, then."

"You will not. In Thenn we make our own weapons and choose our own battles. Leave if you wish, you are older than your brother. I do not expect you to possess the folly to walk into that bloodbath and be slaughtered. I expect you will become Queen Beyond the Wall, with men bowing and scraping to fight off the Seven Kingdoms and return to the Eighth. Your brother acted in folly, but he acted as a free man." Turning, he loosed an arrow at the top of the castle, missing the first. "I expect, if you are true to your word, you will have your subjects look for ways to kill the White Walkers, to fight the war of the South so that it lifts not a finger." With the second arrow, he killed a man on fire, wishing to if nothing else show mercy in the bloodbath. "I expect you will create order, justice, borders- you will destroy the freedom we have fought to protect and make Thenn all the easier to invade." Hearing a horse behind him, another arrow caught the rider unaware. "Do not disappoint me."

Hronar scanned the area long after his daughter had walked into the wood, like to seek men among the Frostfangs. The battle of Westwatch-by-the-Bridge had resolved, though he knew not what happened to those on the other side of the Wall. Perhaps they had been separated to be killed, perhaps they would truly be allowed to settle. He knew not, and found it difficult to summon it within him to care. These were deserters, much the same as Mance Rayder, who for all his boasting of a former crow, meant merely to become a subject of Winterfell and take free folk with him.

The nameless gods were silent as he prayed alone.


	51. Ghazdan

GHAZDAN

The days and nights of Lorath were cold, but he had seen worse.

As his feet would bear him, he kept pace with Laash, the man to which he had attached himself over the last few days. It had been raining when the man dropped his things, coming out of a tavern and brushing past another. Swiftly had he stooped to assist the older man, collecting a scroll and a loose sheet. Revealing he had been learning to read, that an old friend had shown him High Valyrian, the noble took him as a servant of sorts, having no other.

Ghazdan well knew the elder was a magister, serving in the council which governed the islands for true, whatever the princes claimed. He had seen such men before, they valued overmuch their silks and wines, their holdings, and those who looked on as they rode through the streets were no different. They looked with longing.

"Swiftly, now. The Council will not long await a man and a boy." Remembering the Lorathi voice so vexingly spoken, he responded adequately.

"This one has heard if a man is of import, another will wait." The old man grumbled beneath hearing about foreign ideas.

Does Laash realize I am Ghiscari?

It had been a strange truth, far flung from his mind, as much so as his former slavery, and a difficult one to accept. Reyne pieced her own memory together with his help not long after, and she had yet to forgive him. Sighing in his own mind, he could not complain.

If aught, he prayed to the gods of Ghis, had they not left him as he them, that the magister would not soon unravel that he was for true unlettered. He would live an honest life, die before allowing himself to believe an untruth once more, but he needed more of the strange Lorathi coin should he begin to repay his debt to the girl.

Putting thoughts of her from his mind to work, they entered the chamber.

"Is a boy the assistant of the man of which this one has heard?" The question from the octagonal table carried an implacable sense of malice. Silently, Laash took his place with the addressed standing behind.

"A boy helps a man with young eyes, all is all." The proceedings began.

"We must immediately resume the operation to Vaes Graddakh. The gods only know what hidden treasures the Dothraki store." The magister who spoke had a thin beard, but was younger than most.

"The Dothraki have no need for treasure. I have met no fewer than a hundred such men and they desire only horseflesh and women from other lands." It was a robed figure, Ghazdan could not but see him to discern aught.

"A hundred? Half again that number-" The conversation was dismissed by three holding up hands. A higher number can end a debate.

"More pressing matters exist." Began one of the magisters with his hand raised, a fish merchant by dress. "The Braavosi among others have come into the waters and harvested resources belonging to the Council." There arose a sonorous tone of assent. Can you not protect your sea?

"This is most certainly a point of concern. Local fisherman- Lorathi men who brave the seas have fish stolen from under their very noses." You have presented no new information.

"What is more, Antorys, a man finds that the sealers from Ib and the Axe are forming a trade alliance to exclude men." The man of thin beard nodded. Upon what grounds-

"Immediate action must be taken. To this end, the men and women must needs take leave of their gold and not of their senses. Men must buy ships from Pentos for a blockade." If the Braavosi have fished your waters, they will keep the ships from reaching the bay.

"Where can men find this gold? Though this one believes in our ways as much as another, it appears it has been taken up and divided from Lorathi sealers and distributed for the common man and woman to purchase bread. Would they have it from them again? Would they purchase mere ships when the common ones starve?" Yes. You depend on the seas. Bread only gets eaten.

The magisters were lost in thought, debating within their minds.

"It must be. Though for too long, all the gold in the realm has been controlled by small groups, another must control all the gold to secure the future of the city." Heads solemnly nodded, having reached a difficult decision, save the one covered by the black robe.

"A condition, this one offers."

"Speak."

"When last the Council made a great purchase, it bought a library of books to grant the common man the means of trade. Once each had read, the books were sold for bread." The older man nodded.

"This is true."

"Men must not again sell what they purchase. Never can they have the same amount of gold again."

"A terrible truth, the merchants of the world would rob the men and women of Lorath." I envy your soft heart as much as your soft mind envies those with less foolhardy plans. The Ghiscari scarce could bear to listen to the proceedings, scarce able to contain his anger. He had been a slave, but even slaves were permitted to work without their tools being taken.

"All the same, the Council will be better to keep the ships."

They left the magisters when Laash was sent for other duties, namely to look for hard workers, celebrated in the city by all. Finding himself walking swiftly in frustration, Ghazdan slowed himself to help the old man in the direction of a woman digging a channel through the street to drain the water.

"A good woman deserves reward for her good work." He began as his helper poured over the work. She had used a spade with the half the haft sawn off.

"What happened to the other half?" He kept his voice at the tone of a jape, unwilling to test a Lorathi with a spade.

"Firewood." Why did I not guess?

"As for her due, she will be allowed once more to speak before the Council." The magister continued, ignoring the question of the former slave. "They will mind how much the harder she works with but part of a spade." That was her intention.

"A woman thanks you, magister." They parted ways.

Helping the old noble to his manor, which he shared with more than a score of the cities men and women, and more of their children, the Ghiscari found the words to speak.

"A boy wishes to share what his young eyes have seen before a grandfather leaves him." At a nod, he continued. "The magisters know not what must be done. A boy sees they think well of work doing, but not work done."

"What means the boy?"

"Men mean not to aid Lorath, but to repeat what has been told them. Men would sell what she needs for tomorrow and buy what she needs for today. A woman in the street dug a ditch, but why? Whom did a woman help? Would not they reward her fairly? Would another with a full shovel, digging in less time, receive less reward?" Laash smiled and stared silently for a moment.

"A boy has many ideas and an old man has no hatred to stop them. Perhaps they are true. Much and more has a man seen in his life, much and more has yet to pass." With that, he entered his shared home.

He found Reyne outside, washing clothes for the house. She had refused to take the lodging as a gift, and paid for it well. The man and his wife, whom he knew to be Oren and Beretys, were welcome hosts after the first night, and he had grown to liking them, but the girl was almost insulted by their insistence on their duty.

"Reyne, gentle as the night sky, what ails you that I may aid?" As usual, she ignored his greeting. He wore no longer the garb of a slave, nor that of a sailor, and her only remark was that it was ill fitting to dress as a Lorathi man, as he was neither Lorathi nor a man. Without further word, he went inside to help Beretys, knowing the northron girl would not suffer his aid.

Perhaps she is what the city needs.

Finding it impossible to fear for what the man thought of him, Ghazdan had been speaking of his previous life with Oren. He made little remark about it, but spoke of his own life from time to time. As a boy, he had lived in Norvos. Though the city brimmed with opportunity, he could bear the smell of slavery no longer and left for a true Free City. Hearing Pentos no better, and Braavos chaotic, he had come to the island and it had become his home. In his eyes, it was no worse than any other place, nor would many another call it better, but the city had taught him much and more.

"He became a man in Lorath, Ghazdan." He told him, one night as they looked up at the stars. "As a boy in a city rife with slaves, he thought all other holds were better places with better men. He believed the Norvoshi the worst of men, that one man could own another burned his heart. In folly, he went to live among those he believed better. When he arrived, he found no slavers, but he had not changed. No water of the bay could wash the old city from him. Living under new magisters did not make him a new man. He did not fight the slavery he hated, he fled it and he fled what he thought men said about him." The two of them stared into the darkness of the night sky.

Beretys is different. She was born here, and knows no other land. What is a man if he changes from realm to realm? Is he no more than a mirror of his surroundings? If a man can change cities like a cloak for another, what matter do they make?

In the midst of the questions swimming in the mind of the Ghiscari Oren pointed to a swift flash of light in the sky.

"In Norvos, men see the same stars. Men see their fates, the wisdom of the gods relayed to them, the many ways home when lost at sea. Do the stars say the same to all men?" He stood, ready to return to the dwelling below to sleep.

"They do, friend." Ghazdan stood as he spoke. "They say to men they are older than all the ages before, and will shine through all the ages to come. As men look at them, they watch men die. No man is eternal." Without speaking, the Lorathi simply nodded and took the ladder down into the house. Finding his place, it was not long before the darkness overtook his sight and he sat in the shallow waters of a cold beach, staring at the island.

"I shall not suffer your presence here." The voice came from the land, where stood a figure in the dark, shrouded on all sides in shadow. Not moving, the unknowable one continued. "You may not look upon me. You may not question me." Like as not deciding the former slave would not leave him, the figure crept farther back into the dark.

"Stay." He responded. "I expected the Ghozai. Is this all that is left of you? Monkey is no more, for true. What remains?" The shadows crept back to reveal another of himself.

"We are not alike. I know naught of you and you of me."

"We are the same."

He woke in a cold sweat. Morning had not come, his mind had merely become too active, when must needs it rest. Reyne woke across the small room, hearing his labored breath.

"Nightmare?"

"It is a bad dream no longer, and I have misgivings it will return." He responded after thinking. For the first time in turns of the moon, the girl almost smiled.

"Has politics you so fearful?"

"Why would it worry me of all men? All you have to do is lie." He smiled before finally lying still. At last he slept, at last at peace in his mind.


	52. Darke

DARKE

Ice cracked as he split the log against the stone.

Clearing from his brow a cold sweat, he saw a horseman riding toward the inn. Well enough. Happier the old man is, less he takes a piss out.

Without a clear need to greet him ahorse, Darke returned to his task. It was the little he could do to give the keeper back, he had slept in a bed for days, perhaps a moon's turn. Splitting was good for his back, he felt the strength return to him as he labored and protested it not. The rider went inside without a word to him.

Men usually spoke with the old man before asking after a bed. There was breakfast for a Star or little more, ale for less. It was wise to speak first, many such keepers were naught more than bandits, but the horseman would find him to his liking. He was honest and fair, and had returned to him his name.

It had been a cold day when he woke, the window was open and he rose from the bed expecting a clanging or a ringing in his ears. Breakfast was on the table, bread and water was a rare gift to a hungry man.

"You'll work for the next one, son."

"I must have forgotten your name."

"Like as not, you forgot yours as well. Knight who brought you in told me as much. Paid with real dragons, he did. He said to keep you so long as you needed keeping, 'might be that you'd misremember a thing or another'." The keeper appeared to imitate a voice. "Makes no matter. Your name's Darke, he said. No telling if it's your family or you."

"Do you speak for true?" It had been difficult to understand.

"No, you're a lost lordling in line to inherit the throne. Yes it's all true, you fool. How would you know the difference?" He ate in silence as the old man cleaned blood from another table. "Nasty bunch of men, they are. They come here thrice a moon's turn to talk politics and once in a while someone bleeds. I'll have it none of them know a thing."

Over the next fist of days the keeper set him about to tasks to help along and pay his due. Now and again he would pick at Darke's mind to see what he'd remembered. Naught too much it, seems.

Setting a third log, the rider walked out of the inn.

"Most men stay longer."

"This is the Old Stone Bridge, is it not?"

"You have it rightly."

"You are the one brought in with a wound to the head?" Does he ask what he knows?

"For true."

"The keeper swears by the Seven that there is no mistake."

"He swears none too soon."

"Fie." The horseman touched a bow on his back as though to ready it, but turned to his mare instead. It was an old, brown, beast, sturdy by all looks. "Mount."

"Where in the seven-"

"We ride for the Iron Throne. I received instruction you are to lead the charge after a series of sorties. I have a better idea."

"You- know who I am- how is that-"

"A woman named Myren sent the scholar at Harrenhal a raven concerning your condition should Darklyn have further need of you. Surmising a knight bore you to the nearest inn, logic bid me search here."

"Why does he want-"

"You are a common killer. He meant you to raise a blade against King's Landing."

"This woman, is she-"

"Probably dead. Already replaced." Heaving himself upon the horse's back in a confused silence, he received a letter from the other man. "This one came today from the halfmaester."

"I write to Ser Orrod, dishonored knight of the leech lord." The words began.

"Keep reading."

"The true victor in the bout-in-matches carried your estoc, and died of an arrow untreated. After interring his final foe as he had bid me, I was granted leave to do the same for him. His body was a web of black veins, his eyes white- a man wonders how he stayed alive but for will. Our leader has declared an unsuitable replacement, a former assassin by the name of Darke. This missive from his former hand will aid your pursuit of the killer. Be wary of the wisdom in this decision.

As for the information you requested before your departure, what little and less I have detailed is all that can be gained. Speaking to Noreton Early, I have learned the name he gave you was a false one, though the extent of his plans are uncertain. It is possible, and I believe it as like as aught else, he merely came to kill Darklyn and die. In closing, the Swords express gratitude for the swift death of Damon Vypren."

Darke lowered the letter, lost in thought. Names are vaguely familiar, but who are they?

"It seems I am little loved." The knight bothered not to respond. He rode without words for a time, until at last he could suffer it no longer. "Do you know who I am?"

"All I know comes after here. You are a bastard and a common killer. You carry no shield, wear no armor. Myren may have called you craven."

"By the Seven…"

"What?" Ser Orrod asked, though it was clear he knew.

"It makes no matter, but I did not foresee this." Unwilling to start the matter anew, the horseman kept his pace silently. He was not one to sit a horse another rode, it appeared.

The day sharpened and the sunlight played across the ice and snow, flitting about. Their shadows cast themselves far afield, his out to sea and the other man's to the north. The keeper had remained hopeful that the snow would let up soon.

Hours passed and Darke decided he would bother the man none too much should he ask about aught of importance.

"Who sits the Iron Throne?"

"No man knows." Sighing, he allowed the knight his mount again. Like as aught else, many and more answers will be the same.

Rosby was not far from the road, but he knew enough about the seat of any lord who took a liking. The surrounding lands served bread for King's Landing, as made known by the smallfolk who guarded the stores idly, knowing not what else could be done. A man in a robe with a strange chain about his neck attempted to direct them.

"Melwys!" Shouted the rider, not needing but to rein as he passed. "A maester told me of you. He asked me to point out the fine job you do."

"I… have been in contact with no other-"

"Say it; it must be." The matter was closed entirely. "The man is a Frey bastard." He began to Darke as they were out of hearing. "Most maesters forget their second names, most for good reason. A man lives the life he chose. Has he the will to see it, he will have men know him by a name he chose should they know him only as another."

As he rode, the horseman stared down at him.

"Is there aught you-"

"I merely study you. Men say you were once a swordsman."

"They would have me an assassin. A blade in the dark, dishonorable before the Seven. I am not that man. I know him not." Not responding, the archer ahorse cast his sight to sea, over Blackwater Bay. Across that sea, he knew from the keeper, another world loomed with other gods and other ways. Men lived under strange law and custom, they kept no family names but for the sake of their empty titles. It had taken days to understand the ways of the Seven Kingdoms, days longer to make any sense of them. He had misgivings he could learn to make sense of aught else.

Seeing the other man cut a nock into an arrow shaft on horseback, he decided to chance another question.

"You made mention of a man named Darklyn."

"I did."

"Sounds a bit like Darke, doesn't it? I thought I'd read that-"

"House Darklyn is gone. Dargoods and Darkes mill about, but I know naught of the South." The knight possessed an unerring skill for closing matters of discussion. He looked once over his shoulder and back again. "If you truly would know, the Crownlands and Dorne and the like are not for men of honor. In the North, a bandit will rob you if you fail to kill. Here, the bandits have armies and castles."

The man afoot thought to himself, not daring further words.

He hates questions, it must be. Like as aught else, he's a common killer, like all the knights the old man knew. Though his eyes failed him in his tens of thousands of days and nights, for the scene was like two, one atop the other, but worse for clarity, he could see a man from a monster. Years had passed before his eyes, the kings came and went as they lost their sharpness, banners changed, the animals danced to their deadly songs; he lost his wife in the years that passed.

As the keeper would have it, she was like the passing houseguest in the songs, the sort that comes as a humble mendicant and reveals herself to be a goddess, endowing gifts upon those who had treated her with a soft heart. Though in those days he was a young man working for an older owner, he put her boarding on his back and ran errands through the night as she recovered from the wounds with which she came. She spoke little and less of her life, her friends and enemies, though he knew she had too few of the first and to many of the latter. She married him, but could promise no young for him, as one day the night would again grow dark and long and she would leave him. He put the thought from his mind as they lived happily in their simple lives. When the time came she asked he remember her not for leaving and never let the years take his heart.

On the road ahead he beheld a man dragging a load of logs, unable to carry them. On his back a knife was bound to a walking stick, and his face was unmoving as he passed. Darke needed not ask, he had seen this manner of man and did not envy him.

The sun was high in the sky, from the knight came a dark shadow beneath his mount, though he could not see it. The passing cast a longer shadow as he trudged a small hill, but all lay behind him. Perhaps it meant there was light ahead, perhaps he was not long for the realms of men. Beneath his own feet he could see no shadow, but like as aught else, this would pass. He would be atop a hill, he would pass under a tree, the darkness upon the ground was a changing thing.

"Why are you taking me to King's Landing?" Knowing not from whence the thought came, he knew not why out it tumbled. The archer unseated himself and straightened out the saddle, finding an iron link in the straps had snapped.

"Your fate lies there, in your hands or those of the gods." Taking a scabbard from the saddle, he handed it over promptly. "I had considered keeping this one, but I've taken a liking to the other." He answered with a confused expression. "It's yours, fool."

"You mean to tell me you know naught of what I am to do?"

"You seem to know little more." He tossed a pack of supplies from the horse's back. "You, however, will soon learn."

"Where will you-"

"I enter the city in secret to find her Swords. The men at the gates will approach you, hinder them not. Keep the sword out of sight. Whether you will aid is naught to me, but should you, I can have you speak to any man you like about your past." Allowing him to mount once more, Ser Orrod turned to the bay, seeking out a fishing boat.

"Why were you dishonored?"

"The gods are slow with justice, if they are good. If cruel, they have me to thank." Blackwater Bay gleamed in the sunlight as the man approached it silently. Ice covered the stones on the path, but he needed not step on them. His fate and death would wait.


	53. Motte

MOTTE

Larence Snow had been something of a brother to her. Four and ten, he waited astride a black beast with a company to his back. There was a lump in her throat upon the sight, an unease.

Tytos Blackwood had been wise to send her north. He would have kept her for all his worth, any ally of the Starks was a daughter to him, but southron swords were in and out of his keep with the passing hour. With no place to hide her, he sent her with a small company, green boys disguised. Their aim was to take her near enough to Greywater Watch, she had made mention of Joanna Reed searching about for her young, and should they pass her, she would take the maid to her keep, to Howland Reed, the last man to fight by Eddard Stark.

From Fairmarket they had crossed the Blue and the Green, taking the kingsroad to avoid the Twins, reaching as far as the marshes of the Neck. Not seeing the lady as they had but vainly hoped, they set themselves to change course for White Harbor. While nominally in support of the Freys and the Iron Throne, whoever should sit it, the Poole boy had heard whisperings and Lord Blackwood never believed treachery in a bannerman of the Starks.

He had kept himself at her right, the tallest of them, he had discovered a pike better suited him than a sword. He spoke little, but that was only because she forbade him from again mentioning his exploits with a Manderly girl among others.

"Where do you go?" Larence began simply.

"We are bound for White Harbor." It was a squire, Ronal Wild who spoke. "The hold and its men are true friends of the Starks, whatever men say."

"My seat, Hornwood, lies not far afield."

"You have a seat?" Motte's question sprang forth without warning. He was but four and ten, little and less her elder.

"Brandon Stark told the men of the North I do. Is it sufficient?" There was annoyance in his voice. "There is work enough for all of us, including you." He changed tone as he looked off into the distance. "There are more northron swords for you to command than what you could scrap together south of here. They await your orders as we move to reclaim Moat Cailin."

I know naught of tactics and strategy. I know only of the knights a lady needs to win a war with honor and grace, and them have I yet to see but for one.

"As you say, Lord Hornwood. Should the daughter of Galbart Glover raise the spirits of our men, she shall as high as she can raise them." Turning her mount, she set for the towers, unable to rid her mind of the hedge knight. With her name, it had been clear to him she was of some import, but the man knew so little to what there was to know. She wondered what he would think of her, riding into danger and for a moment she felt disgust boil in her spleen, her deceit would not be swiftly forgiven, least of all by her.

What days and nights were to come would yet try her, but rise to the trials must she, as her father spoke before revealing her unjust exile.

"It is with pain akin to rending my heart from my breast that I must send you from my sight, from my protection, from my knowledge. Gods and men know you remind me more of your mother than myself, they know from whence will come your greatness in life." She remembered crying on that day, for turns of the moon thinking it impossible to be in greater pain. These were worlds of consequence, matters the smallfolk could not comprehend, and for more than necessity did she not share her secrets. It was only when she heard the screams of the baseborn girl that she would sooner herself burn than again so easily turn eye from the suffering of low birth.

"Why… father, I…"

"Why indeed. My daughter, may there come a day when you are the last hope for Deepwood, my heart will break in its rest for the burden you must bear, but you will be ready, and you will be alive. Men know little of your mother, my lost treasure, and should I have a hundred years to tell them, I would yet fail to have them understand. I have allowed my brother to carry the birthright that by rights should be yours, should he die, which is more like than not, the day will come.

"Must there… father…"

"Take with you all I have tried to teach you, take with you the ray of summer's light that was your mother, take with you all that you need. In Torrhen's Square, or perhaps the Barrowlands, men will know naught of you. I shall send a knight to watch at a distance, some days you may see him should oft enough you look. Once he will be an old man in a robe, another time he will arm himself and appear younger. Speak to him not, he will not answer you."

Motte had cried so much her head began to hurt, and she scarce heeded the remainder of her father's words. As he spoke, she felt as though he betrayed her, but she knew otherwise.

Retaking Moat Cailin had been the next move of the King in the North, cut short by his own demise. A man planted among the ironmen reported the squids and fish bemoaned of the bog devils, whom she knew to be crannogmen.

Perhaps the men of Pyke hate them so for their tactics of evasion and slow bleeding, perhaps they need a great glass with which to see themselves.

In her heart, she knew grumbling would do her no service. Her lord father had done well to instruct her in the ways of the world, before outdoing himself by heaving her out into it. She sighed as she rode, checking to her side. The men about her were green boys yet, unsure of themselves, in want of a reason to fight and fall. She had been admonished not to allow them to believe the fearful voices.

The way through the wildwood was no way at all.

An uncharted swamp, it was but for men who had trod and trudged the watery land from boyhood, one among them Bran, raised by smallfolk as a boy. He held he was a foundling, born shortly before the death of Brandon Stark at the hands of the Mad King. Loyal to House Reed and as it followed House Stark, they so named him. Blackwood heard of a hedge knight and the young man found himself employed.

With his keen eyes of silver, he killed with a bow on his back; he carried no sword, no blade but a knife at his belt. No helmet obscured his sight, a brindle hood concealed his head. He was armored with a fine steel, but a light amount, no more than would show beneath the cloak, following him nigh to the ground. Seeing him first, she had once wondered what had so impressed the lord of Raventree. When brigands she had heard not were upon them, she wondered no more.

Bran kept ahead, even of her, though his station was lesser. He took them through the infirm bog of waste and water, guiding that even the horses retained their footing. Outriders met them ahead, and she signaled to her knights to stay their weapons. Larence and company were proceeding more slowly, not wishing to be seen as a threat.

"Who comes?" She responded with a falsely slighted stare.

"You have not the weight to know." Motte spoke at last, though it pained her to act the lady above men at arms. "The Lord of Hornwood rides behind with reinforcements." She added at his disinterest. Crannogmen are difficult to beguile; I must needs improve my role acted.

"Wonderful." The outrider sighed. "M'lady." Pointing to the towers reaching just above the trees, he began to apprise her of the matter. "The squids are out, the flayed are in. Thus far, we give the same treatment, begin to think the flayed like bein' slowly bled to death." He did not turn to see the fruits of his jape, though the boy to her back sounded amused. "We focus our fire on the Drunkard's Tower- the leaning one. Men say they've readied a ladder."

"Where are your men stationed?"

"There are no stations. Welcome to the Neck." He turned and gave a general direction. "Though, if you walk over there like a damnable banner wavin' in the breeze, I'm sure the men will feel better with a little northron lady about before she gets filled with arrows." Unwilling to allow it to continue, the maid dismounted and received a grey cloak from the saddlebags. Donning it without but a heartbeat between, she gave a signal and the knights bound the horses before doing the same. Reaching a tree near the base of the tower, last before the clearing, she whispered an order.

"Bran, the sent-"

"I know." Drawing two arrows, he put one in each of the archers in exposed windows. Stepping out, he shot the sentinels at the base.

"We move as soon as the ladder passes us." Whipping her head around, the crannogmen readied a ladder with bearers four and half a hundred men. "Bran, remain here."

"You will remain as well, my lady." The other knights cast looks of assent. "You can't order us to kill you. That would go against the wishes of our lord." The Poole boy led her around the treeline where a clearer view could be had. Her men leaped from the trees and sprinted to the Drunkard, cutting down the gathering of men, clearing a path for the ladder, which was forced into the clearing and against the base before her heart could beat but thrice. She heard the volleys of Larence's men; they had taken position not far from a sinking mass of black basalt, once a piece of wall.

Swiftly the tower produced men who had been waiting inside, seizing the ladder from the window. Archers on the ground shot as many as they could, yet the ladder was broken by an axe before a man could ascend. Swiftly they dispersed again into the trees, even as the flayed moved to surround with a company sent out from the Gatehouse Tower before the maneuver. The men of the neck were quick to be away from the mass of it, archers shooting them from their concealed positions.

Motte touched her face. Have I been weeping?

The green boy had his hand on her back while he raised a shield above them. Perhaps he is a boy for not much longer.

Refusing to bury her face and give in, she spoke.

"We... r-require a new plan."

"Of course my lady, within the hour." Though his words agreed, his hand guided her away. It was the first she had seen of war, and he would not allow it further in her state. The tears stubbornly seemed to push with all the more vigor, it was a girl's lot to cry, not that of a lady. I am being taken from war, and I have no illusions.

The outrider appeared more kindly than before.

"Battle never eases. On your mind it presses until you are always at war."

"D-did you fight in the Greyjoy Rebellion?" He nodded. For what seemed an hour, silence fell, the sounds of war distant.

"House Reed appreciates the swords you brought, and those of Larence Snow. Go with him as he travels north, there may yet be work for you." She nodded slowly, forcing herself to think of what good may come. With Deepwood relieved by Stannis Baratheon, House Glover would aid him in the march on Winterfell. Her father would need to know she is alive. If I am but a last resort, a last resort must needs I be.

"I require this boy for my travels. There is much and more he must learn." She indicated the Poole boy, who stood not far watching the companies break down to men, crouching and killing among the trees as they milled together.

"He will be of no great loss to us."

The Lord of Hornwood leaned against a tree as a man pulled free an arrow and bound his leg.

"Come. You should scarce need it ahorse." He scowled as he painfully mounted the bay she led for him. The sounds followed them into the distance, and her into dreams.


	54. Epilogue

The cup seemed to stare, the wine shaking in a strange way as he drank. Sighing as he set it down, he completed his last few letters. What is it with my eyes? What manner of ail have I?

There was a chance it was not merely his eyes, though they had irked him, unclear for the first time in all his life as he read. He had heard of the same happening to crowns, men with no hour alone in the day, men with no peace at night. Standing, he remembered such men for the greater part but worked by another, having a hand to take the shit as they ate. Making a fool's display of the position had been an amusing venture until a true Sword had taken it for true.

Where is she now?

He rose from the table in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, where he had been eating. Some new champion would have to be chosen. He was for six parts in ten sure the dishonored knight had not found his, a bold man, a wonder to have survived the life of an assassin. It was possible he had refused, but doubts need not prey upon the idea. All the same, he would choose a new champion before again eating with the men.

A knock came at the door with a braying sound. Man and beast entered unbidden.

"Grandmaester." He began, after appraising the man in a dark robe with a chain of many links. "-or must needs I address you as Bailton of Oxcross, though you no longer bear his raiment?" At a rueful stare, he recanted. "Come now, it was but a jest. I expect you will soon resume the name, else you must have truly taken to the mount."

"There is more work to be done. Forget not your place in the Swords, Denys Darklyn. Or perhaps you would have your true name known?"

"Again, it was a mere jape." He poured from a favored vintage of Myrish purple. "Never have I seen your names and faces, though I have heard they are convincing even to a trained eye."

"It is true, but my abilities are no greater than those of the man for whom I am here. I mark him a lithe swordsman as well."

"Tell me."

"Not long ago I received a raven about an old man who had been following him. He approached, along with a worthy foe, and he went about his work. From the blue wine on the letter, I believe his name was Euron Greyjoy that day." He chuckled. Ah yes, the greatest sword of the Swords. Not one slip is there in his mummery, I wonder if even he knew he was not the squid king.

"Would you have me name him our champion? It would be well to have a fine sword in the hands of a finer man, but I have doubt he will arrive soon enough. Perhaps another-"

"There can be no other. The men outside this keep are restless. They would be led by one not among them, but greater. They would have our faith, they would have a man we value."

A silence passed.

"Then it must be." He rose, meeting the scholar's gaze.

"A matter troubles you."

"The halfmaester here has a head great with knowledge, but I would speak little of his silver link. Of late my eyes trouble me. He knows not why." No expression came from under the hood.

"I too have spoken with your halfmaester. He examined a man who had been poisoned. He looked half a knight, even in death. From the black blood in the veins in his eyes, his vision would have suffered greatly."

"Poisoned, for true?" Darklyn asked, walking from his seat. "I had allowed him to look at the body, but without a report, I was certain there was naught to discuss."

"Had you aught to do with this man?"

"I spoke to him, for not an hour. Interesting fellow, nearly. He tried to kill me." Though the face of the Grandmaester of the Swords was shrouded, he could all but see it grow dark. A hearth in the great hall went out, and the man was darker yet.

"He succeeded." He spoke with a heavy heart. Though the leader knew the man bore no esteem of him, the scholar stared silently, rearranging his clasped fingers. "You are already dead." The realm with its crowns and laws ceased their games in his mind, the clashing Swords quieted, the days that had passed and the days yet to come gave up their path through and around his head, like the storms and fires they had been. All was still.

"Perhaps… have a drink and explain…" He fumbled for the first in his life with the cask, meaning to retrieve a new bottle for his guest.

"It would not be wise. As fond as you are of it, I fear we must destroy the whole of the cask unless we learn of how he killed you. I have seen the fatal works of the knight's poison before, and I was swift to know it. He has been poisoned for longer a time than I would believe he lived. He meant to be here before he died, to kill you with his last breath. I have seen looser ties to the realms of men keep the dying alive. Had he aught to drink?"

"Of course." Scarce could he but respond, naught else resided in his head. "I… took his wine as he died." With both hands he seized the sides of his head, doubling over. "BY ALL THE GODS HE WAS WOUNDED! I KNEW HE WAS SOON TO DIE! POISON! IT WAS POISON!" Glancing briefly at the Grandmaester in rage, the man was still, calculating.

"That draught was meant to be ingested. Whatever your will, you will not have so long to live as he. This hour is of tantamount importance. Make known to me what you must." Still seething, he rose again to his feet.

"I know not if Vaesyr still breathes. See it done before he completes his mission." He threw the wine across the hall, the bronze clanking against the ancient stone floor. "He was never well and truly a Sword. He needed the cover to find a damnable dragon. May all the gods damn him, he might have." Looking over, the hooded man for a moment appeared like to speak, but motioned for him to continue. "Myren is not like to return alive. If she does, have her replace me. She will have earned it." The hood of the dark robes nodded. "Might be the Old Queen knows of us, else another acts in her name. She has lost power of late, but she still breathes. Tell our friend Euron naught of this. He seeks a temporary seat, and it will not be long before he is not needed. As for the other high Swords, merely keep them far afield of what might from Valyria return." Denys coughed, sinking to his knees.

"The poison kills you even now. Perhaps it is more potent when drunk."

"Why did you come here?" Did you do it?

"Why? For true, I had aught to reveal to you. Follow me if able are you." The man spoke with a voice of ease, but it was not his true tone. He walked from the hall as the leader hobbled behind. How distinctly unlike a leader.

"Where are we bound?"

"But a modicum further, Darklyn." In the distance there was a writhing, twisting mass in the trees. "Already even your moribund eyes see it, the glory and strength of the last and greatest freehold." The crawling dragon lurched forward, towering head clearing the tree line. "Valyria, where neither gods nor kings but men reigned supreme, she casts her shadow over the world even now."

"Vaesyr…"He choked.

"The man sought after his birthright, as any other deposed warring lord. Never had he truly grasped the greatness and power of Valyria and her free men. Magic to such a man is a means to power, he knew naught and he died the same way. It was you who would save the realms of men from their crowns." Doubling over once more, he found no strength remained to him but to stand before the beast. "It was you who called forth the common man to assail the cursed city where the kings will stand last. It will be you for whom the singers will dance and play and sing."

"How…"

"Our friend atop this beast has traveled far." A man surfaced from the trees, his skin a grey with what looked to be metal. "I know not his name, but he has used the object the Valyrian looted to control the dragon. This I know from seeing, but naught else should we learn lest speaks he the Common Tongue, or any other." His vision began to darken worse than before.

"Is there aught-" Speaking, he was near enough to stopping his heartbeat.

"I fear not, old ally." The Grandmaester began simply. "Fain would I have my talents and knowledge hailed for such a task, fain would I try and fail, better that than aught else. And yet, the years have taught me to resist for every book that has shown me the secrets of natural properties. Were I to remove what ails you from your blood, you would all the more swiftly die." The great beast neared, breath like the blaze of the summer sun. The head and neck appeared a grey color, though he knew not whether it was grey from birth or freezing.

The man who controlled the dragon approached the head, holding still the powerful neck, holding away the horrors within the maw. For a moment Darklyn could again clearly see, and the rider he saw, was an Essosi of some description, and the metal color was no tattoo but nails. No, that must be wrong. My blood leaves me, it leaves my head.

The sky was dark or perhaps it was merely his eyes again, he knew not. If his sight were clear, he would be like to see the stars, but none did he behold. It was a great blackness, a void, were it not for his heaving breast he would fear himself already dead. Might be I have been. The gods only know how long.

Screaming as a shoot of pain came through him, he forced the gods from his mind. His last thoughts would not be of them. If there were gods in a world where the crowns reigned over better men, he would not honor them with his final thoughts. Hearing came and left.

"You will be on the back of the dragon when…" Uncertain murmurings followed before he could hear no more. Adrift once more, he wondered not for the first time of the path of his life, from boyhood to the day he renounced the crown and was branded with the name Denys Darklyn.

"…must she eat now…" The words no longer resonated within him, as though they were not words at all, mere voices, thoughts perhaps. He felt himself retreat to his mind, where swiftly pictures came and went.

"…no longer of use to the Swords…" Though he had no thoughts of it in years, they came, all to the surface they came. His life, whether killing or dying, was a constant war against all, a war he had known he would countervail attacks from all sides, a life he had known would kill him.

"…a pity, for true." All at once his sides flared as he was lifted into the air by a younger man. His hands were hard and calloused, arms broken many times. There were nails sticking out of his chest and arms, but it did not seem to bother him. For a moment he was high in the air before being grabbed and forced inside a dark place, his body being crushed and squeezed. Darkness at last enveloped the world.

* * *

A/N

So ends the epilogue to the _Last Knight Before Winter_. I hope all three of you will be back for the sequel, _A Darke Midwinter's Night_, to be written after the release of _Winds of Winter_. As my title implies, it will take place during that book, as opposed to this one, which is between _Dance _and _Winds_ as you know. If there's anything you'd like to say, whether it's about the next release, the series in general, or this story, feel free to review or message.


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